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GREAT  POEMS  OF  THE 
WORLD  WAR 


Edited  ByT 

W.    D.    EATON 


GREAT  POEMS  OF  THE  WORLD  WAR 


Between  the  hedges  of  the  centuries 
A  thousand  phantom  armies  go  and  come, 
While  Reason  whispers  as  each  marches  past, 
"This  is  the  last  of  wars — this  is  the  last!" 

— Lieut.  Gilbert  Waterhouse. 


GREAT  POEMS  OF 
THE  WORLD  WAR 


EDITED,  WITH  INTRODUCTION,  NOTES  AND 
ORIGINAL  MATTER,  BY 

W.  D.  EATON 


CHICAGO 

T.  S.  DENISON  &  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,    1918 

<BS 
EBEN  H.    NORRIS 

under  title 
"The  War  in  Verse  and  Prose" 

Copyright,  1922,  by  T.  S.  Denison  &  Company 


"Great  Poems  of  the  World  War" 


if 


PREFACE 

N  a  fateful  day  in  1914,  without  a  warning  flash 

or   tremor,   there   fell   upon   the  world   such   a 

blast  of  war  as  human  reason  could  not  have 

J  foreglimpsed,  nor  Apocalyptic  vision  raised,  to 


appall  the  souls  of  men.  Twenty-seven  nations  took 
the  shock  and  were  rocked  to  their  foundations.  Eleven 
were  caught  and  knotted  in  the  maddest  agony  of 
conflict  that  ever  was  known.  Through  four  years  the 
winds  of  destruction  swirled  and  roared  around  the 
monstrous  welter,  before  the  evil  forces  failed  and  their 
exhaustion  brought  a  breathing  space  such  as  lies  at  the 
heart  of  a  typhoon.  Around  the  widening  edges  of  that 
space  they  still  muttered  for  a  while  in  gusts  of  blood 
and  fire,  slowly  receding,  slowly  dying.  But  the  great 
storm  is  gone;  the  long  night  that  seemed  the  night  of 
doom  is  over. 

Its  epic  has  not  been  written.  The  time  is  too  near  us, 
the  motive  too  deep,  the  theme  too  vast.  But  out  of  the 
dark  came  many  voices,  voices  of  lamentation,  of  home 
and  love  and  hope  and  heroism  and  loftiest  ideality,  of 
romance,  of  strange  comedy.  These  had  their  inspira- 
tion from  a  gigantic  spectacle  of  elemental  passions  in 
cross-play,  from  the  thoughts  and  emotions  not  of  a  single 
people,  but  of  all  that  were  fighting  for  the  life  and  light 
of  civilization.  Poets  great  and  poets  minor  followed 

5 


542101 


the  war  or  fought  in  it,  and  expressed  its  spirit  with  a 
personal,   passionate   fidelity   impossible   to  historians. 

It  would  not  be  well  were  all  these  voices  lost.  Many 
are  worth  fixation  where  they  may  be  heard  again  at  will, 
and  that  is  the  reason  for  and  purpose  of  this  book.  The 
finest  and  truest  of  them  are  given  here. 

In  making  selection,  availability  for  recitation  has  been 
considered.  There  is  no  better  way  to  stir  the  mind  or 
fix  the  memory  than  by  spoken  words  of  beauty  in  rhyth- 
mic cadence,  especially  in  schools.  It  is  hoped  they  will 
be  effective  in  such  uses. 

Readers  will  find  in  the  captain  notes  many  helpful 
sidelights  upon  topics  and  personalities.  These  will  com- 
mend themselves  for  their  own  sake. 

W.  D.  EATON. 

The  Press  Club,  Chicago. 


CONTENTS 


ABRAHAM    LINCOLN    WALKS    AT 

MIDNIGHT     .     .     .     .     .     .     Vachel   Lindsay      .     .  144 

ACELDAMA Dr.  George  F.  Butler    .  117 

AFTERWARD Charles  Hanson  Toivne  133 

ALAN   SEEGER Washington  Van  Dusen  14 

AMBULANCE  DRIVER'S  PRAYER,  AN    Chaplain     Thomas     F. 

Coakley      ....  74 

AMERICAN  CREED,  AN    ....     Everard  Jack  Appleton  57 

ANXIOUS  ANTHEMIST,  THE     .      .     Guy  Forrester  Lee      .  169 

ANXIOUS  DEAD,  THE     ....     Lieut.  Col.  John  McCrae  109 

APRIL   SONG,  AN George  C.  Michael      .  189 

ARMED    LINER,   THE     ...      .      .     H.  Smalley  Sarson  .      .  183 

"As  SHE  Is  SPOKE" 113 

As  THE  TRUCKS  Go  ROLLIN'  BY     Lieut.  L.  W.  Suckert     .  26 

AUSTRALIA'S  MEN     .....     Dorothea  Mackellar     .  96 

BATTLE  LINE,  THE J.  B.  Dollard  ...  65 

BATTLE  OF  BELLE AU  WOOD  .  .  Edgar  A.  Guest  .  .  29 

BEFORE  ACTION Lieut.  William  Noel 

Hodgson  ....  13 

BLIGHTY Lieut.  Siegfried  Sassoon, 

M.  C 121 

BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY  IN  FRANCE     George  M.  Mayo    .      .  41 

BOY  NEXT  DOOR,  THE    .     .     .     .     S.  E.  Kiser    .     ...  172 

BRITISH  ARMY  OF  1914,  THE    .     .     Alfred  W.  Pollard  .     .  119 

BULLINGTON         ......     C.  Fox  Smith     ...  34 

BUT  A  SHORT  TIME  TO  LIVE  .  .  Sergt.  Leslie  Coulson  .  103 

CALL,  THE Robert  W.  Service    .     .  106 

CHANT  OF  ARMY  COOKS,  A 66 

CHRIST  IN  FLANDERS     .     .     .     .     L.   W 55 

CLERK,  THE B.  H.  M.  Hetherington  94 

COLUMBIA'S  PRAYER                            Thomas  P.  Bashaw     .  82 


CONTENTS — Continued 

CORP'RAL'S  CHEVRONS 37 

CRIMSON  CROSS,  THE     ....     Elizabeth     Brown     Du 

Bridge        ....  48 

CROSS  AND  THE  FLAG,  THE     .      .      William  Henry,  Car- 
dinal O'Connell  .      .  45 

CROWN,    THE Helen  Combes    ...  193 

CRUTCHES'  TUNE,   THE     .      .     .     Elizabeth  R.  Stoner .      .  108 

DESTROYERS "Klaxon"       ....  84 

DIRGE,    A Victor   Peronvne       .      .  90 

Do  YOUR  ALL Edgar  A.  Guest     .     .152 

DRUM,  THE Joseph  Lee    ....  67 

EASTER-EGGS Reginald  Wright  Kauf- 
man         89 

EDITH  CAVELL McLandburgh  Wilson  .  178 

EPITAPH  FOR  THE  UNKNOWN  SOL- 
DIER      . Annette  Kohn    .      .      .  202 

EVENING  STAR,  THE     ....     Harold  Seton     ...  81 

FLAG  EVERLASTING    .     .     .     .     .     A.  G.  Riddoch    ...  40 

FLAG  OF  THE  FREE Francis  T.  Smith     .     .  153 

FLAG  SPEAKS,  THE Walter  E.  Peck      .     .  105 

FLAG,  THE Edward  A.  Norton       .  173 

FLEMISH  VILLAGE,  A     ....//.  A 92 

FRANCE Capt.     Joseph     Medill 

Patterson    ....  93 

FRENCH  IN  THE  TRENCHES     .      .     William  J.  Robinson    .  19 

GENTLEMEN  OF  OXFORD,  THE     .      Nor  ah  M.  Holland      .  115 

GOING   WEST Eleanor    Jewett       .      .  123 

GOLDENROD,  THE "Anchusa"           ...  129 

GOLD  STAR,  THE Edgar  A.  Guest      .      .  17 

GRAVES  OF  GALLIPOLI,  THE     .      .     L.  L.   (A..N.  Z.  A.  C.)  27 
GREAT  ADVENTURE,  THE   .      .      .     Major    Kendall    Ban- 
ning         68 

"HEARTS  ARE  TOUCHING" 159 

HERE  AT  VERDUN Chester  M.  Wright     .  167 

HOME Reginald  Wright  Kauf- 
man 110 


CONTENTS — Continued 

HOMECOMING,  THE Leroy  Folge  ....  192 

HYMN  OF  FREEDOM,  A    ....     Mary  Perry  King    .      .  98 

I     HAVE     A    RENDEZVOUS    WITH 

DEATH Alan   Seeger       ...  99 

IN  FLANDERS'  FIELDS     ....     Lieut,  Col.  John  McCrae  101 
IN  THE  FRONT-LINE  DESKS     .      .     Lieut.    Elmer    Franklin 

Powell        ....  143 

JEAN   DESPREZ Robert    W.  Service      .  146 

JOHN    DOE— BUCK    PRIVATE    .      .     Allan  P.  Thomson  .      .  127 

JUST    THINKING Hudson  Hawley      .      .  80 

Km    HAS    GONE    TO   THE    COLORS     William  Herschell  .      .  23 

KINGS,    THE Hugh  J.  Hughes     .      .  145 

KNITTING   SOCKS 128 

LET  THERE  BE  LIGHT!  ....     Ruth     Wright     Kauff- 

man 196 

LITANY  * Allene   Gregory      .     .  20 

LITTLE  GRIMY-FINGERED  GIRL,  A     Lee  Wilson  Dodd    .     .  43 

LITTLE  HOME  PAPER,  THE      .      .     Charles  Hanson  To^-ne  15 

LITTLE  TOWN  IN  SENEGAL,  A  .      .      Will   Thompson       .      .  42 

LONELY   GARDEN,  THE      .     .     .     Edgar  A.   Guest      .     .  118 

LOST  ONES,  THE Francis  Ledwidge    .     .  104 


MAGPIES  IN  PICARDY     ....  "Tipcuca"     ....  130 

MAN  BEHIND,  THE      ....  Douglas  Malloch     .     .  166 

MARCHING  SOLILOQUY,  A 71 

MARINES,  THE Adolphe  E.  Smylie  .     .  73 

MEN  OF  THE  BLOOD  AND  MIRE     .  Daniel    M.    Henderson  160 

MIKE   DILLON,  DOUGHBOY      .     .  Lieut.  John  Pierre  Roche  61 

MISSING "Iris" 78 

MORITURI  TE  SALUTANT    .     .     .  P.  H.  B.  L 120 

MULES C.  Fox  Smith    •      ,     .  187 

NAZARETH "L." 47 

NIGHTINGALES  OF  FLANDERS,  THE  Grace  Hazard  Conkling  50 


10 


CONTENTS — Continued 


NINETEEN-SEVENTEEN    ....     Susan  Hooker  Whitman  85 

No  MAN'S  LAND Capt.  James  H.  Knight- 

Adkin 16 

NOT  Too  OLD  TO  FIGHT     .     .     .      T.  C.  Harbaugh     .     .  75 

NOT  WITH  VAIN  TEARS     .      .      .     Lieut.  Rupert  Brooke    .  102 

NOVEMBER  ELEVENTH    ....     Elizabeth   Hanly     .     .  198 

NURSE,  THE 14 

OLD  GANG  ON  THE  CORNER,  THE  .     William  Herschell  .     .  64 

OLD  JIM Norman  Shannon  Hall .  199 

OLD  TOP   SERGEANT,  THE      .      .     Berton  Braley    ...  38 

ON  His  OWN Adolphe  E.   Smylie      .  124 

OUR  SOLDIER  DEAD  .      .      .      .      .     Annette  Kohn    .     .     .  195 

PADRE,  THE Capt.  C.  W.  Blackall  .  36 

PARENTHETICALLY  SPEAKING 176 

PASSING  THE  BUCK Sergt.  Norman  E.  Ny- 

gaard 32 

PERSHING     AT     THE     TOMB     OF 

LAFAYETTE Amelia  Josephine  Burr  52 

PIERROT  GOES Charlotte  Becker     4     .  49 

POILU Steuart  M.  Emery       .  95 

"POOR  OLD  SHIP!" C.   Fox  Smith    ...  30 

POPPIES Capt.  John  Mills  Han- 
son     25 

PRESENT  BATTLEFIELD,  THE    .      .      Wright    Field    ...  197 

RAGNAROK .     Arthur  Guiterman  .     .  21 

RAIN  ON  YOUR  OLD  TIN  HAT      .     Lieut.  J.  H.  Wicker sham  182 

REFUGEES,  THE W.    G.   S 162 

RETINUE,  THE Katharine  Lee  Bates    .  137 

RETURN,    THE Theodore  Howard 

Banks,  Jr 33 

RIDE  IN  FRANCE,  A      ....     "O.  C.  Platoon"      .     .  170 

RIVERS  OF  FRANCE,  THE    ...//.  J.  M.       ....  79 

ROAD  TO  FRANCE,  THE      .     .     .     Daniel  M.  Henderson  .  46 

RUNNER  McGEE Edgar  A.  Guest     .     .  57 

SCRAP  OF  PAPER,  A      ....     Herbert  Kaufman    .     .  24 

SERBIAN  EPITAPH,  A     ....     V.   Stanimirovic      .     .  50 


11 


CONTENTS — Continued 


SERVICE  FLAG,  THE      .     .     .     .  J.  E.  Evans        .     .     .  158 

SERVICE   FLAG,  THE      ....  William  Herschell       .  154 

SHIPS  THAT  SAIL  IN   THE   NIGHT  Dysart  McMullen    .     .  126 

SILENT  ARMY,  THE      ....  Jan    Adanac       ...  86 

SMALL  TOWN  SPORT,  A     ...  Damon   Runyon       .     .  155 

SOLDIER'S   FOLKS   AT   HOME,   THE 59 

SOLDIERS  OF  THE  SOIL    ....  Everard  Jack  Appleton  44 

SOLDIER,  THE Lieut.  Rupert  Brooke    .  102 

SOMEWHERE  IN  FRANCE      .      .      .  LeRoy  C.  Henderson    .  157 

SOMEWHERE  IN  FRANCE,  1918      .  Almon  Hensley  .     .     .  132 

SONG  OF  THE  AIR,  THE    .     .     .  Gordon  Alchin  ...  190 

SONG  OF  THE   DEAD,   THE     .     .  J.  H.  M.  Abbott     .     .  161 

SONG  OF  THE    GUNS,   THE     .      .  Herbert  Kaufman    .      .  134 

SONG  OF  THE  WINDS     ....  Mary  Lanier  Magruder  163 

SOURCE  OF  NEWS,  THE     . 86 

SPIRES  OF  OXFORD,  THE     .     .     .  Winifred  M.  Letts      .  114 

SPRING F.  M.  H.  D.     .     .     .123 

SUDDENLY  ONE  DAY 151 

SWAN   SONGS 99 

TANKS 0.  C.  A.  Child  ...  97 

TELLING    THE    BEES     .     .     .     .     G.  E.  R 136 

THERE  ARE  CROCUSES  AT  NOTTINGHAM 184 

THERE  WILL  BE  DREAMS  AGAIN  Mabel  Hillyer  Eastman  171 

THEY  SHALL  NOT  PASS     .     .     .  Alison  Brown     ...  125 

THEY  SHALL  RETURN    .     .     .     .  J.  Lewis  Milligan    .     .  179 

THREE  HILLS Everard  Owen    ...  60 

To  HAPPIER  DAYS Mabel  McElliott     .     .  Ill 

To  MY  SON 87 

To  SERVE  Is  TO  GAIN    ....  Charles  H.  Mackintosh  179 

To  SOMEBODY Harold  Seton     ...  69 

"To   THE    IRISH   DEAD"     .     .     .  Essex  Evans      .     .     .  180 
To  THE  WRITER  OF  "CHRIST  IN 

FLANDERS" E.   M.   V 69 

TRAINS Lieut.  John  Pierre  Roche  53 

Two  VIEWPOINTS Amelia  Josephine  Burr  83 

UNKNOWN      SOLDIER      ARMISTICE 

DAY  AT  ARLINGTON,  THE   .     .  Grantland  Rice  .     .     .  200 


CONTENTS — Continued 

VICTORY!        S.  J.  Duncan-Clark      .  191 

VISION Dorothy    Paul    ...  181 

VIVE  LA  FRANCE! Charlotte  Holmes  Craw- 
ford         139 

WAR    .      .     . Col.  William  Lightfoot 

Visscher      ....  70 

WAR  HORSE,  THE Lieut.  L.  Fleming    .     .174 

WAR  ROSARY,  THE Nellie  Hurst       .     .     .  185 

WATCHIN'  OUT  FOR  SUBS    .     .     .     U.  A.  L .  18 

WAYSIDE  IN  FRANCE,  A     ...     Adolphe  E.Smylie    .     .  76 
WE'RE      MARCHIN'      WITH     THE 

COUNTRY Frank  L.  Stanton     .      .  151 

"WHAT  THINK  YE  ?"    ....     W.A.Briscoe     ...  165 
WHEN    PRIVATE    MUGRUMS    PAR- 
LEY Voos Put.    Charles  Divine    .  186 

WHEN  THE  FRENCH  BAND  PLAYS 63 

WHILE   SUMMERS  PASS      .     .     .     Aline  Michaelis      .     .  72 

WIDOW,    THE Miss  C.  M.  Mitchell  .  51 

WITH  THE  SAME  PRIDE     .     .     .     Theodosia  Garrison     .  116 

WOES  OF  A  ROOKIE,  THE    .     .     .     William  L.  Colestock    .  141 

WOMAN'S  GAME,  THE 91 

WORLD    SERIES    OPENED — BATTER 

UP! ' 177 

YOUR  LAD,  AND  MY  LAD     .     .     .     Randall  Parrish      .     .  112 


GREAT  POEMS  OF  THE  WORLD  WAR 


BEFORE  ACTION 

LIEUT.  WILLIAM  NOEL  HODGSON 
MILITARY  CROSS,  DEVON  REGIMENT — KILLED  IN  BATTLE 

From   "Verse  and   Prose  in   Peace  and  War."     John   Murray,   Pub- 
lisher,   London.      Permission   to   reproduce   in   this   book. 

"D  Y  all  the  glories  of  the  day, 

And  the  cool  evening's  benison; 
By  the  last  sunset  touch  that  lay 

Upon  the  hills  when  day  was  done: 
By  beauty  lavishly  outpoured, 

And  blessings  carelessly  received, 
By  all  the  days  that  I  have  lived, 

Make  me  a  soldier,  Lord. 

By  all  of  human  hopes  and  fears, 

By  all  the  wonders  poets  sing, 
The  laughter  of  unclouded  years, 

And  every  sad  and  lovely  thing: 
By  the  romantic  ages  stored 

With  high  endeavor  that  was  his, 
By  all  his  mad  catastrophes, 

Make  me  a  man,  O  Lord. 

I,  that  on  my  familiar  hill 

Saw  with  uncomprehending  eyes 
A  hundred  of  Thy  sunsets  spill 

Their  fresh  and  sanguine  sacrifice, 
Ere  the  sun  swings  his  noonday  sword 

Must  say  good-bye  to  all  of  this: 
By  all  delights  that  I  shall  miss, 

Help  me  to  die,  O  Lord. 

13 


ALAN  SEEGER 

WASHINGTON  VAN  DUSEN 
IN   THE  CHICAGO  TRIBUNE 

beauty  could  escape  his  loving  eyes, 
Not  even  ruthless  war  could  hide  from  view 
The  smiling  fields  where  crimson  poppies  grew, 

Nor  mar  the  sunset's  rose  and  purple  dyes; 

He  watched  a  vine-clad  slope,  with  glad  surprise 

To  hear  grapepickers  sing,   although  they  knew 
Just  on  the  other  side,  the  cannon  threw 

Their  deadly  shells  and  woke  the  startled  skies. 

But  over  all  that  made  Champagne  so  fair, 
He  saw  the  grandeur  of  the  field  of  strife, 

Exulting  in  the  cause  that  placed  him  there, 
He  felt  a  calm,  mid  all  the  carnage  rife, 

And  faced  the  battle  with  a  spirit  rare, 

"For  death  may  be  more  wonderful  than  life." 


THE  NURSE 

IN  LONDON   PUNCH 
Reproduced  by  special  permission  of  the  Proprietors  of  "Punch" 

TLJERE  in  the  long  white  ward  I  stand, 

•*•     Pausing  a  little  breathless  space, 
Touching  a  restless  fevered  hand, 

Murmuring  comforts  commonplace — 

Long  enough  pause  to  feel  the  cold 
Fingers  of  fear  about  my  heart; 

Just  for  a  moment,  uncontrolled, 
All  the  pent  tears  of  pity  start. 

While  here  I  strive,  as  best  I  may, 
Strangers'  long  hours  of  pain  to  ease, 

Dumbly  I  question — Far  away 
Lies  my  beloved  even  as  these? 


THE  LITTLE  HOME  PAPER 

CHARLES  HANSON  TOWNE 

IN  THE  AMERICAN  MAGAZINE 

Permission  to  reproduce  in  this  book 

PHE  little  home  paper  comes  to  me, 

As  badly  printed  as  it  can  be; 
It's  ungrammatical,  cheap,  absurd — 
Yet,  how  I  love  each  intimate  word! 
For  here  am  I  in  the  teeming  town, 
Where  the  sad,  mad  people  rush  up  and  down, 
And  it's  good  to  get  back  to  the  old  lost  place, 
And  gossip  and  smile  for  a  little  space. 

The  weather  is  hot ;  the  corn  crop's  good ; 
They've  had  a  picnic  in  Sheldon's  Wood. 
And  Aunt  Maria  was  sick  last  week ; 
Ike  Morrison's  got  a  swollen  cheek, 
And  the  Squire  was  hurt  in  a  runaway— 
More  shocked  than  bruised,  I'm  glad  they  say. 
Bert  Wills — I  used  to  play  with  him — 
Is  working  a  farm  with  his  Uncle  Jim. 

The  Red  Cross  ladies  gave  a  tea, 

And  raised  quite  a  bit.     Old  Sol  MacPhee 

Has  sold  his  house  on  Lincoln  Road — 

He  couldn't  carry  so  big  a  load. 

The  methodist  minister's  had  a  call 

From  a  wealthy  parish  near  St.  Paul. 

And  old  Herb  Sweet  is  married  at  last — 

He  was  forty-two.     How  the  years  rush  past! 

But  here's  an  item  that  makes  me  see 
What  a  puzzling  riddle  life  can  be. 
"Ed  Stokes,"  it  reads,  "was  killed  in  France 
When  the  Allies  made  their  last  advance." 


Ed  Stokes!    That  boy  with  the  laughing  eyes 
As  blue  as  the  early-summer  skies! 
He  wouldn't  have  killed  a  fly — and  yet, 
Without  a  murmur,  without  a  regret, 

He  left  the  peace  of  our  little  place, 
And  went  away  with  a  light  in  his  face; 
For  out  in  the  world  was  a  job  to  do, 
And  he  wouldn't  come  home  until  it  was  through ! 
Four  thousand  miles  from  our  tiny  town 
And  its  hardware  store,  this  boy  went  down. 
Such  a  quiet  lad,  such  a  simple  chap- 
But  he's  put  East  Dunkirk  on  the  map! 

NO    MAN'S    LAND 

CAPT.   JAMES   H.    KNIGHT-ADKIN 
IN  THE  SPECTATOR 

"M"O  Man's  Land  is  an  eerie  sight 

At  early  dawn  in  the  pale  gray  light. 
Never  a  house  and  never  a  hedge 
In  No  Man's  Land  from  edge  to  edge, 
And  never  a  living  soul  walks  there 
To  taste  the  fresh  of  the  morning  air. 
Only  some  lumps  of  rotting  clay, 
That  were  friends  or  foemen  yesterday. 

What  are  the  bounds  of  No  Man's  Land? 
You  can  see  them  clearly  on  either  hand, 
A  mound  of  rag-bags  gray  in  the  sun, 
Or  a  furrow  of  brown  where  the  earthworks  run 
From  the  Eastern  hills  to  the  Western  sea, 
Through  field  or  forest,  o'er  river  and  lea ; 
No  man  may  pass  them,  but  aim  you  well 
And  Death  rides  across  on  the  bullet  or  shell. 


17 

But  No  Man's  Land  is  a  goblin  sight 

When  patrols  crawl  over  at  dead  o'  night; 

Boche  or  British,  Belgian  or  French, 

You  dice  with  death  when  you  cross  the  trench. 

When  the  "rapid,"  like  fire-flies  in  the  dark, 

Flits  down  the  parapet  spark  by  spark, 

And  you  drop  for  cover  to  keep  your  head 

With  your  face  on  the  breast  of  the  four  months'  dead. 

The  man  who  ranges  in  No  Man's  Land 
Is  dogged  by  the  shadows  on  either  hand 
When  the  star-shell's  flare,  as  it  bursts  o'erhead, 
Scares  the  great  gray  rats  that  feed  on  the  dead, 
And  the  bursting  bomb  or  the  bayonet-snatch 
May  answer  the  click  of  your  safety-catch. 
For  the  lone  patrol,  with  his  life  in  his  hand, 
Is  hunting  for  blood  in  No  Man's  Land. 

THE  GOLD  STAR 

EDGAR  A.  GUEST 

Copyright,   1918,  by   Edgar  A.  Guest.     Special  permission  to  repro- 
duce in  this  book. 

HTHE  star  upon  their  service  flag  has  changed  to  gleam- 
A  ing  gold ; 

It  speaks  no  more  of  hope  and  life,  as  once  it  did  of  old, 
But  splendidly  it  glistens  now  for  every  eye  to  see 
And   softly   whispers:     "Here   lived    one   who    died    for 
liberty. 

"Here  once  he  walked  and  played  and  laughed,  here  oft 

his  smile  was  known ; 

Within  these  walls  today  are  kept  the  toys  he  used  to  own. 
Now  I  am  he  who  marched  away  and  I  am  he  who  fell ; 
Of  service  once  I  spoke,  but  now  of  sacrifice  I  tell. 


18 

"No  richer  home  in  all  this  land  is  there  than  this  I  grace, 
For  here  was  cradled  manhood  fine;  within  this  humble 

place 
A  soldier  for  the  truth  was  born,  and  here,  beside  the 

door, 
A  mother  sits  and  grieves  for  him  who  shall  return  no 

more. 

"Salute  me,  stranger,  as  you  pass!  I  mark  a  soldier  who 
Gave  up  the  joys  of  living  here,  to  dare  and  die  for  you! 
This  is  the  home  that  once  he  knew,  who  fought  for  you 

and  fell; 
This  is  a  shrine  of  sacrifice,   where   faith   and   courage 

dwell." 


WATCHIN'  OUT  FOR  SUBS 

U.   A.    L. 

From  Bert  Leston  Taylor's  column,  "A  Line  o'  Type  or  Two," 
IN  THE  CHICAGO  TRIBUNE 

T^OSUN'S  whistle  piping,  "Starboard  watch  is  on" 

Sleepy  army  officer,  waked  at  crack  o'  dawn ; 
In  the  forward  crow's  nest,  watchin'  out  for  subs ; 
If  they  show  a  peeper,  shoot  the  bloomin'  tubs. 

Ocean  black  and  shiny,  silly  little  moon ; 
Transports  fore  and  aft  of  us — daylight  comin'  soon ; 
Sleeping  troopers  sprawling  on  the  deck  below ; 
Something  in  the  water  makes  the  spindrift  glow. 

In  the  forward  crow's  nest — ah!  the  day  is  here! 
Transports  and  destroyers  looming  far  and  near. 
Ours  the  great  adventure — gone  is  old  romance ! 
Wake,   ye  new   Crusaders!      Look! — the   shores   of 
France ! 


19 

FRENCH    IN   THE   TRENCHES 

WILLIAM  J.  ROBINSON 

IN  THE  SAN  FRANCISCO  ARGONAUT 
Permission   to  reproduce  in  this  book 

T    HAVE  a  conversation  book;  I  brought  it  out   from 

home. 
It  tells  you  the  French  for  knife  and  fork  and  likewise 

brush  and  comb] 
It  learns  you  how  to  ask  the  time,  the  names  of  all  the 

stars, 
And  how  to  order  oysters  and  how  to  buy  cigars. 

But  there  ain't  no  stores  to  buy  in;  there  ain't  no  big 

hotels, 
When  you  spend  your  time  in  dugouts  doing  a  wholesale 

trade  in  shells; 

It's  nice  to  know  the  proper  talk  for  theatres  and  such, 
But  when  it  comes  to  talking,  why,  it  doesn't  help  you 

much. 
There's  all  them  friendly  kind  o'  things  you'd  naturally 

say 
When  you  meet  a  feller  casual  like  and  pass  the  time  o' 

day. 
Them  little  things  that  breaks  the  ice  and  kind  of  clears 

the  air. 
But  when  you  use  your  French  book,  why,  them  things 

isn't  there. 

I  met  a  chap  the  other  day  a-rootin'  in  a  trench, 
He  didn't  know  a  word  of  ours,  nor  me  a  word  of  French ; 
And  how  we  ever  managed,  well,  I  cannot  understand, 
But  I  never  used  my  French  book  though  I  had  it  in  my 

hand. 

I  winked  at  him  to  start  with ;  he  grinned  from  ear  to  ear ; 
An'  he  says,  "Bong  jour,  Sammy,"  an'  I  says  "Souvenir" : 
He  took  my  only  cigarette,  I  took  his  thin  cigar, 


20 

Which  setxthe  ball  a-rollin',  and  so — well,  there  you  are! 
I  showed  him  next  my  wife  and  kids;  he  up  and  showed 

me  his, 

Them  funny  little  French  kids  with  hair  all  in  a  frizz; 
"Annette,"  he  says,  "Louise,"  he  says,  and  his  tears  begin 

to  fall; 
We  was  comrades  when  we  parted,  though  we'd  hardly 

spoke  at  all. 

He'd  have  kissed  me  if  I'd  let  him.     We  had  never  met 

before, 
And  I've  never  seen  the  beggar  since,  for  that's  the  way 

of  war; 
And  though  we  scarcely  spoke  a  word,  I  wonder  just  the 

same 
If  he'll  ever  see  them  kids  of  his — I  never  asked  his  name. 

LITANY 

ALLENE  GREGORY 

IN    HARRIET   MONROE'S    POETRY   MAGAZINE 

Permission  to  reproduce  in  this  book 

C  AINT  GENEVIEVE,  whose  sleepless  watch 

Saved  threatened  France  of  old, 
Above  the  ship  that  carries  him 
Your  sacred  vigil  hold. 

Where  all  the  fair  green  fields  you  loved 

Are  scarred  with  bursting  shell, 
Joan,  the  Maid  who  fought  for  France — 

Oh,  guard  your  young  knight  well. 

But  if  by  sea  or  if  by  land 

God  set  death  in  his  way — 
Then,  Mother  of  the  Sacrificed, 

Teach  me  what  prayer  to  pray! 


21 


RAGNAROK 

THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  GODS 
ARTHUR  GUITERMAN 

IN  THE  BELLMAN,  MINNEAPOLIS 
Permission   to  reproduce  in  this  book 

"LJO!    Heimdal  sounds  the  Gjallar-horn 

11   The  hosts  of  Hel  rush  forth 

And  Fenris  rages  redly 

From  his  shackles  in  the  North  ; 

Unleashed  is  Garm,  and  Lok  is  loosed, 

And  freed  is  Giant  Rime; 

The  Rainbow-bridge  is  broken 

By  the  hordes  of  Muspelheim. 

The  wild  Valkyries  ride  the  wind 

With  spear  and  clanging  shield 

Where  all  the  Hates  embattled 

Are  met  on  Vigrid-field  ; 

For  there  shall  fall  the  Mighty  Ones 

By  valiant  men  adored — 

Great  Odin,  Tyr  the  fearless, 

And  Frey  that  sold  his  sword. 

And  Thor  shall  slay  the  dragon 

Whose  breath  shall  be  his  bane. 

The  gods  themselves  shall  perish; 

The  sons  of  the  gods  shall  reign ! 

Old  Time  shall  sound  the  boding  horn 

Again  and  yet  again, 

To  rouse  the  warring  passions 

That  swell  the  hearts  of  men. 

Revolt  shall  wake,  and  Anarchy, 

With  all  their  horrid  throng — 

Revenge,  Destruction,  Rapine, 


22 


The  spawn  of  ancient  Wrong, 
With  all  the  hosts  of  slaughter 
That  our  own  sins  must  breed — 
Cold  Hate,  Oppression's  daughter, 
And  Rage,  the  child  of  Greed. 
Then,  though  we  stand  to  battle 
As  men  have  ever  stood, 
Down,  down  shall  crash  our  temples, 
The  Evil  and  the  Good; 
Yea,  all  that  now  we  cherish 
Must  pass — but  not  in  vain. 
The  gods  we  love  shall  perish  ; 
The  sons  of  the  gods  shall  reign! 

So,  strong  in  faith,  or  weak  in  doubt, 

Or  berserk-mad,  we  range 

Our  spears  in  that  long  battle 

Which  means  not  Death,  but  Change. 

Our  highest  with  our  lowest 

Must  own  the  grim  behest, 

And  Good  shall  yield  for  Better — 

Else  how  should  come  the  Best? 

Yet  if  we  win  our  portion 

How  dare  we  crave  the  whole? 

And  if  we  still  press  forward, 

Why  need  we  know  the  goal? 

But  those  whose  hearts  are  constant 

And  those  whose  souls  are  wise 

Have  said  that  from  our  ashes 

A  nobler  race  shall  rise 

From  shreds  of  shattered  altars 

To  rear  the  Perfect  Fane. 

Our  little  gods  must  perish 

That  God  Himself  shall  reign ! 


23 


THE  KID  HAS  GONE  TO  THE  COLORS 

WILLIAM  HERSCHELL 

IN  THE  INDIANAPOLIS  NEWS 

Permission   to  reproduce  in  this  book 

'T'HE  Kid  has  gone  to  the  Colors 

And  we  don't  know  what  to  say; 
The  Kid  we  have  loved  and  cuddled 

Stepped  out  for  the  Flag  today. 
We  thought  him  a  child,  a  baby, 

With  never  a  care  at  all, 
But  his  country  called  him  man-size 

And  the  Kid  has  heard  the  call. 

He  paused  to  watch  the  recruiting 

Where,  fired  by  the  fife  and  drum, 
He  bowed  his  head  to  Old  Glory 

And  thought  that  it  whispered:   "Come!" 
The  Kid,  not  being  a  slacker, 

Stood  forth  with  patriot-joy 
To  add  his  name  to  the  roster — 

And  God,  we're  proud  of  the  boy! 

The  Kid  has  gone  to  the  Colors;  , 

It  seems  but  a  little  while 
Since  he  drilled  a  schoolboy  army 

In  a  truly  martial  style. 
But  now  he's  a  man,  a  soldier, 

And  we  lend  him  listening  ear, 
For  his  heart  is  a  heart  all  loyal, 

Unscourged  by  the  curse  of  fear. 

His  dad,  when  he  told  him,  shuddered, 
His  mother — God  bless  her! — cried; 
Yet,  blest  with  a  mother-nature, 


24 

She  wept  with  a  mother-pride. 
But  he  whose  old  shoulders  straightened 

Was  Granddad — for  memory  ran 
To  years  when  he,  too,  a  youngster, 

Was  changed  by  the  Flag  to  a  man! 

A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER 

HERBERT    KAUFMAN 

From  Mr.  Kaufman's  book  of  poems,  "The  Hell-Gate  of  Soissons." 
T.  Fisher  Unwin,  Publishers  (all  rights  reserved),  London,  England. 
Special  permission  to  reproduce  in  this  book. 

"Just  for  a  word,  'neutrality'  .  .  just  for  a  scrap  of 
paper,  Great  Britain  was  going  to  make  war." — The 
German  Chancellor  to  the  British  Ambassador  in  Berlin. 

JUST  for  a  "scrap  of  paper," 
Just  for  a  Nation's  word, 
Just  for  a  clean  tradition, 
Just  for  a  treaty  slurred ; 
Just  for  a  pledge  defaulted, 
Just  for  a  dastard  blow, 
Just  for  an  ally's  summons, 
Just  for  a  friend  struck  low ; 
Just  for  the  weal  of  progress, 
Just  for  a  trust  held  dear, 
Just  for  the  rights  of  mankind, 
Just  for  a  duty  clear; 
Just  for  a  Prussian  insult, 
Just  for  a  splendid  cause, 
Just  for  the  hope  of  progress, 
Just  for  the  might  of  laws ; 
Just  for  the  kingdom's  peril, 
Just  for  a  deed  of  shame, 
Just  for  defense  of  honor, 
Just  for  the  British  name! 


25 
POPPIES 

CAPT.  JOHN  MILLS  HANSON,  F.A. 
IN  THE  STARS  AND  STRIPES,  A.E.F.,  FRANCE 

POPPIES  in  the  wheat  fields  on  the  pleasant  hills  of 

France, 
Reddening  in  the  summer  breeze  that  bids  them  nod  and 

dance ; 

Over  them  the  skylark  sings  his  lilting,  liquid  tune — 
Poppies  in  the  wheat  fields,  and  all  the  world  in  June. 

Poppies  in  the  wheat  fields  on  the  road  to  Monthiers — 
Hark,  the  spiteful  rattle  where  the  masked  machine  guns 

play! 

Over  them  the  shrapnel's  song  greets  the  summer  morn — 
Poppies  in  the  wheat  fields — but,  ah,  the  fields  are  torn. 

See  the  stalwart  Yankee  lads,  never  ones  to  blench, 
Poppies  in  their  helmets  as  they  clear  the  shallow  trench, 
Leaping  down  the  furrows  with  eager,  boyish  tread 
Through  the  poppied  wheat  fields  to  the  flaming  woods 
ahead. 

Poppies  in  the  wheat  fields  as  sinks  the  summer  sun, 
Broken,  bruised  and  trampled — but  the  bitter  day  is  won; 
Yonder  in  the  woodland  where  the  flashing  rifles  shine, 
With  their  poppies  in  their  helmets,  the  front  files  hold 
the  line. 

Poppies  in  the  wheat  fields;  how  still  beside  them  lie 
Scattered  forms  that  stir  not  when  the  star  shells  burst 

on  high; 

Gently  bending  o'er  them  beneath  the  moon's  soft  glance, 
Poppies  of  the  wheat  fields  on  the   ransomed   hills    of 

France. 


26 

AS  THE  TRUCKS  GO  ROLLIN'  BY 

LIEUT.  L.  W.  SUCKERT,  A.S.,  U.S.A. 
IN  THE  STARS  AND  STRIPES,  A.E.F.,  FRANCE 

T*  HERE'S  a  rumble  an'  a  jumble  an'  a  humpin'  an'  a 
1  thud, 

As  I  wakens  from  my  restless  sleep  here  in  my  bed 

o'  mud, 

'N'  I  pull  my  blankets  tighter  underneath  my  shelter  fly, 
An'  I  listen  to  the  thunder  o'  the  trucks  a-rollin'  by. 

They're  jumpin'  and  they're  humpin*  through  the  inky 

gloom  o'  night, 

'N'  I  wonder  how  them  drivers  see  without  a  glim  o'  light; 
I  c'n  hear  the  clutches  roarin'  as  they  throw  the  gears 

in  high, 
And  the  radiators  boilin'  as  the  trucks  go  rollin'  by. 

There's  some  a-draggin'  cannons,  you  c'n  spot  the  sound 

all  right; 

The  rumblin'  ones  is  heavies,  an'  the  rattly  ones  is  light; 
The  clinkin'  shells  is  pointin'  up  their  noses  at  the  sky; 
Oh,  you  c'n  tell  what's  passin'  as  the  trucks  go  rollin'  by. 

But  most  of  'em  is  packin'  loads  o'  human  Yankee  freight 
That'll  slam  the  ol'  soft  pedal  ontuh  Heinie's  Hymn  o' 

Hate; 
You  c'n  hear  'em  singin'  "Dixie,"  and  the  "Sweet  Bye 

'n'  Bye," 
'N'  "Where  Do  We  Go  From  Here,  Boys?"  as  the  trucks 

go  rollin'  by. 

Some's  singin'  songs  as,  when  I  left,  they  wasn't  even 

ripe, 
(A-showin'    'at   they's   rookies   wot   ain't   got   a   service 

stripe)  ; 
But  jus'  the  same  they're  good  ol'  Yanks,  and  that's  the 

reason  why 
I  likes  the  jazz  'n'  barber  shop  o'  the  trucks  a-rollin'  by. 


27 

Jus'  God  ?.nd  Gen'rul  Pershing  knows  where  these  here 
birds'll  light, 

Where  them  bumpin'  trucks  is  bound  for  under  camou- 
flage o'  night, 

When  they  can't  take  aero  pitchers  with  their  Fokkers  in 
the  sky 

Of  our  changes  o'  location  by  the  trucks  a-rollin'  by. 

So,  altho'  my  bed  is  puddles  an'  I'm  soaked  through  to 

the  hide, 
My  heart's  out  with  them  doughboys  on  their  bouncin', 

singin'  ride; 
They're  bound  for  paths  o'  glory,  or,  p'raps,  to  fight  'n' 

die- 
God  bless  that  Yankee  cargo  in  the  trucks  a-rollin'  by. 


THE  GRAVES  OF  GALLIPOLI 

L.  L.    (A.   N.  Z.  A.  C.) 

From  "The  Anzac  Book."  Cassell  &  Co.,  Ltd.,  Publishers,  London. 
Special  permission  to  reproduce  in  this  book. 

This  poem  is  one  of  many  that  were  'written  to  commemorate  the 
stubborn  bravery  of  the  Anzacs,  the  British  soldiers  from  Australia 
and  New  Zealand.  These  indomitables  came  half  way  round  the  globe 
at  Britain's  first  call.  Their  first  appearance  was  in  Egypt,  where 
they  drove  the  German-led  Turks  back  into  the  desert  and  saved  the 
Suez  canal.  They  were  and  are  officially  designated  the  "Australian 
and  New  Zealand  Army  Corps,"  a  title  too  long  for  common  use.  They 
have  won  fame  and  the  world's  admiration  as  the  "Anzacs."  a  word 
made  by  running  together  the  first  letters  of  their  official  title.  Aus- 
tralia's own  name  for  her  soldier  is  Bill-Jim.  "The  Graves  of  Gal- 
lipoli"  is  one  of  the  most  noble  and  tender  poems  that  have  come  to 
us  out  of  the  war. 

HP  HE  herdman  wandering  by  the  lonely  rills 
•*•     Marks   where   they   lie   on   the   scarred   mountain's 

flanks, 

Remembering  that  wild  morning  when  the  hills 
Shook  to  the  roar  of  guns,  and  those  wild  ranks 
Surged  upward  from  the  sea. 


28 

None  tends  them.     Flowers  will  come  again  in  spring, 
And  the  torn  hills  and  those  poor  mounds  be  green. 
Some  bird  that  sings  in  English  woods  may  sing 
To  English  lads  beneath — the  wind  will  keep 
Its  ancient  lullaby. 

Some   flower  that  blooms  beside  the  southern   foam 
May  blossom  where  our  dead  Australians  lie, 
And  comfort  them  with  whispers  of  their  home; 
And  they  will  dream,  beneath  the  alien  sky, 
Of  the  Pacific  Sea. 

"Thrice  happy  they  who  fell  beneath  the  walls, 
Under  their  father's  eyes,"  the  Trojan  said, 
"Not  we  who  die  in  exile  where  who  falls 
Must  lie  in  foreign  earth."    Alas!  our  dead 
Lie  buried  far  away. 

Yet  where  the  brave  man  lies  who  fell  in  fight 
For  his  dear  country,  there  his  country  is. 
And  we  will  mourn  them  proudly  as  of  right — 
For  meaner  deaths  be  'weeping  and  loud  cries: 
They  died  pro  patria! 

Oh,  sweet  and  seemly  so  to  die,  indeed, 

In   the  high   flush  of  youth   and   strength   and   pride. 

These  are  our  martyrs,  and  their  blood  the  seed 

Of  nobler  futures.     'Twas  for  us  they  died. 

Keep  we  their  memory  green. 

This  be  their  epitaph.     "Traveler,  south  or  west, 

Go,  say  at  home  we  heard  the  trumpet  call. 

And  answered.     Now  beside  the  sea  we  rest. 

Our  end  was  happy  if  our  country  thrives: 

Much  was  demanded.     Lo!  our  store  was  small — 

That  which  we  had  we  gave — it  was  our  lives." 


29 

BATTLE  OF  BELLEAU  WOOD 

EDGAR  A.  GUEST 

This  poem  was  chosen  by  Major  General  John  A.  Lejeune,  Com- 
mandant of  the  United  States  Marine  Corps,  as  his  favorite  of  all  the 
Marine  Corps  verse  written  during  the  war.  It  is  republished  here  by 
permission  of  the  author  and  of  the  publishers,  Reilly  and  Lee,  who 
hold  the  copyright. 

TT  was  thick  with  Prussian  troopers,  it  was  foul  with 

German  guns; 
Every  tree  that  cast  a  shadow  was  a  sheltering  place  for 

Huns. 
Death  was  guarding  every  roadway,  death  was -watching 

every  field, 

And  behind  each  rise  of  terrain  was  a  rapid-fire  concealed ; 
But  Uncle  Sam's  Marines  had  orders:  "Drive  the  Boche 

from  where  they're  hid. 
For  the  honor  of  Old  Glory,  take  the  woods!"  and  so 

they  did. 

I  fancy  none  will  tell  it  as  the  story  should  be  told — 
None  will  ever  do  full  justice  to  those  Yankee  troopers 

bold. 
How  they  crawled  upon  their  stomachs  through  the  fields 

of  golden  wheat 
With  the  bullets  spitting  at  them  in  that  awful  battle 

heat. 
It's  a  tale  too  big  for  writing;  it's  beyond  the  voice  or 

pen, 
But  it  glows  among  the  splendor  of  the  bravest  deeds  of 

men. 

It's  recorded  as  a  battle,  but  I  fancy  it  will  live, 

As  the  brightest  gem  of  courage  human  struggles  have 

to  give. 
Inch  by  inch,  they  crawled  to  victory  toward  the  flaming 

mounts  of  guns; 
Inch  by  inch,  they  crawled  to  grapple  with  the  barricaded 

Huns ; 


30 

On  through  fields  that  death  was  sweeping  with  a  murder- 
ous fire,  they  went 

Till  the  Teuton  line  was  vanquished  and  the  German 
strength  was  spent. 

Ebbed  and  flowed  the  tides  of  battle  as  they've  seldom 

done  before; 
Slowly,  surely,  moved  the  Yankees  against  all  the  odds 

of  war. 

For  the  honor  of  the  fallen,  for  the  glory  of  the  dead, 
The   living  line  of   courage   kept  the  faith   and   moved 

ahead. 
They'd  been  ordered  not  to  falter,  and  when  night  came 

on  they  stood 
With  Old  Glory  proudly  flying  o'er  the  trees  of  Belleau 

Wood. 


"POOR  OLD  SHIP!" 

C.    FOX   SMITH 
IN  PUNCH 

Reproduced  by  special  permission  of  the  Proprietors  of  "Punch" 

SHE  wasn't  much  to  brag  about,  she  wasn't  much  to 
see, 

A  rusty,  crusty  hooker  as  a  merchant  ship  could  be; 
They  sunk  her  off  the  Longships  light  as  night  was  com- 
ing on, 
And  we  had  to  go  and  leave  her  there  and,  poor  old  ship, 

she's  gone. 

All  that  was  good  of  her,  all  that  was  bad  of  her, 
All  that  we  gave  to  her,  all  that  we  had  of  her, 
Poor  old  ship,  she's  gone! 

The  times  we  spent  aboard  her,   they  was  oftener  bad 

than  good, 
But  bad  or  good,  we'd  live  the  lot  all  over  if  we  could ; 


31 

She's  stood  her  trick  as  well  as  us,  she's  had  her  whack 

of  fun, 
She's  shared  it  all  with  sailormen,  and  poor  old  ship,  she's 

done. 
Hard  times  and  soft  times  and  all  times  we've  been  with 

her, 

Bad  days  and  good  days  and  all  sorts  we've  seen  with  her, 
And,  poor  old  ship,  she's  done ! 

She's  stuck  her  crazy  derricks  up  by  half  a  hundred  quays, 
She's  dipped  her  dingy  duster  in  the  spray  of  all  the  seas ; 
Her  funnels  caked  with  Cape  Horn  ice  and  blistered  in 

the  sun, 
She's  moseyed  round  above  a  bit,  and,  poor  old  ship,  she's 

done. 

North  seas  and  south,  and  they've  all  had  a  go  at  her, 
Hot  winds  and  cold,  and  they've  all  had  a  blow  at  her, 
And,  poor  old  ship,  she's  done! 

She's    trailed    her   smudge    the   whole    world    round    in 

weather  gray  and  blue, 
She's  churned  a  dozen  oceans  with  her  bloomin'  nine-knot 

screw ; 

She's  sampled  all  the  harbor  mud  from  Cardiff  to  Canton, 
And  she'll  never  clear  another  port,  for,  poor  old  ship, 

she's  gone. 

Ports  up  and  down,  and  she's  seen  many  a  score  of  'em ; 
Seas  high  and  low,  and  she  won't  sail  no  more  of  'em, 
For,  poor  old  ship,  she's  gone ! 

And  chaps  that  knowed  her  in  her  time,  'tween  London 

and  Rangoon, 

In  many  a  sailor's  drinking-place  and  water-front  saloon, 
Will  set  their  drinks  down  when  they  hear  her  bloomin' 

yarn  is  spun, 


32 

And  say,  "I  sailed  aboard  her  once,  and,  poor  old  ship, 

she's  done. 

Many's  the  hard  word  I  once  used  to  spend  on  her, 
Ah,  them  was  the  great  days,  and  now  there's  an  end 

on  her, 

Poor  old  ship,  she's  done!" 

PASSING  THE  BUCK 

SERGT.  NORMAN  E.  NYGAARD,  313TH  SN.  TN. 
IN  THE  STARS  AND  STRIPES,  A.E.F.,  FRANCE 

HTHE  Colonel  has  a  job  to  do 

That's  really  hard,  and  puzzling,  too; 
He  can't  quite  figure  what  it  needs, 
So  hands  it  out  to  Major  Heeds. 

And  Major  Heeds  he  thinks  it  o'er, 
And  thinks  it  o'er  and  o'er  some  more, 
And  he  can't  make  it  out  at  all, 
So  Captain  Jones,  he  takes  a  fall. 

The  Captain  shoves  his  helmet  back, 
And  puts  his  brains  all  on  the  rack; 
But  "D — n"  is  all  that  can  be  said, 
And  then  it's  up  to  First  Loot  Head. 

O'  course,  he  "knows,"  but  hasn't  time — 
The  work  they  shove  on  him's  a  crime; 
This,  and  then  lots  more  to  boot, 
So  on  it  goes  to  the  Second  Loot. 

Now  Lieutenant  Young  is  just  a  kid, 
A  baby  mouth  by  an  eyebrow  hid ; 
A  job  like  that  would  knock  him  cold, 
He  hands  it  down  to  Top-soak  Gold. 

The  Top-soak,  'course,  is  swamped  with  work ; 
It  never  was  his  plan  to  shirk, 
But  Sergeant  Reed,  he's  just  the  man, 
He'll  sure  do  it  if  any  can. 


33 


But  that  old  sarge  must  sleep  a  lot: 
This  biz  of  overworking  rot; 
He  gives  the  Corp'rul  loads  of  gas, 
And  so  that  duffer  takes  a  pass. 

But  Corp'ruls  don't  know  what  to  do, 
They're  only  built  for  bossing,  too; 
So  Corp'rul  Jenks,  he  says  he's  stuck, 
And  hands  it  on  to  a  common  buck. 

And  when  the  job  is  finished  right, 
And  all  the  things  are  clear  as  light, 
Why,  then,  it's  found  by  all  the  Fates, 
The  job  was  done  by  Private  Bates. 

An'  it's  passin'  the  buck, 
An'  a-passin'  the  buck, 

An'  a-passin'  the  buck  along, 
An'  on  with  the  buck 
With  the  best  o'  luck, 

An'  I  hope  you  come  out  wrong. 


THE  RETURN 

THEODORE   HOWARD    BANKS,   JR. 
IN   EVERYBODY'S  MAGAZINE 

Permission  to  reproduce  in  this  book 

HEN  I  return,  let  us  be  very  still ; 
No   mirth,   and  but  one  deep,   soul-searching 

glance, 

Mindful  of  the  unnumbered  graves  of  France, 
Where  love  lies  buried  on  each  trampled  hill. 


34 


BULLINGTON 

.     C.    FOX   SMITH 
IN  PUNCH 

Reproduced  by  special  permission   of  the  Proprietors  of  "Punch" 

FT  was  the  high  midsummer,  and  the  sun  was  shining 

strong, 
And  the  lane  was  rather  flinty,  and  the  lane  was  rather 

long, 
When — up  and  down  the  gentle  hills  beside  the  stripling 

Test- 
I  chanced  to  come  to  Bullington  and  stayed  a  while  to 

rest. 


It  was  drowned  in  peace  and  quiet,  as  the  river  reeds  are 

drowned 
In  the  water  clear  as  crystal,  flowing  by  with  scarce  a 

sound, 
And  the  air  was  like  a  posy  with  the  sweet  haymaking 

smells, 
And    the    Roses   and    Sweet   Williams   and    Canterbury 

Bells. 

Far  away  as  some  strange  planet  seemed  the  old  world's 

dust  and  din, 
And  the  trout  in  sun-warmed  shallows  hardly  seemed  to 

stir  a  fin ; 
And  there's  never  a  clock  to  tell  you  how  the  hurrying 

world  goes  on 
In  the  little  ivied  steeple  down  in  drowsy  Bullington. 

Small  and  sleepy,  there  it  nestled,  seeming  far  from  hasten- 
ing Time, 

As  a  teeny-tiny  village  in  some  quaint  old  nursery  rhyme  ; 
And  a  teeny-tiny  river  by  a  teeny- tiny  weir 
Sang  a  teeny-tiny  ditty  that  I  stayed  a  while  to  hear. 


35 

"Oh,  the  stream  runs  to  the  river,  and  the  river  to  the 

sea, 
But  the  reedy  banks  of  Bullington  are  good  enough  for 

me; 
Oh,  the  lane  runs  to  the  highway,  and  the  highway  o'er 

the  down, 
But  it's  better  here  in  Bullington  than  there  in  London 

town." 

Then  high  above  an  aeroplane  in  humming  flight  went  by, 
With  the  droning  of  its  engines  filling  all  the  cloudless 

sky, 

And  like  the  booming  of  a  knell  across  that  perfect  day 
There  came  the  gun's  dull  thunder  from  the  ranges  far 

away. 

And   while  I  lay  and  listened,  oh,  the  river's  sleepy  tune 

Seemed  to  change  its  rippling  music,  like  the  cuckoo's 
stave  in  June; 

And  the  cannon's  distant  thunder,  and  the  engines'  war- 
like drone 

Seemed  to  mingle  with  its  burthen  in  a  solemn  undertone. 

"Oh,  the  stream  runs  to  the  river,  and  the  river  to  the  sea, 
And  there's  war  on  land  and  water,  and  there's  work  for 

you  and  me! 
And  on  many  a  field  of  glory  there  are  gallant  lives  laid 

down 
As  well  for  tiny  Bullington  as  mighty  London  town!" 

So  I  roused  me  from  my  daydream,  for  I  knew  the  song 

spoke  true 
That  it  isn't  time  for  dreaming  while  there's  duty  still 

to  do; 
And  I  turned  into  the  highway  where  it  meets  the  flinty 

lane, 
And  the  world  of  wars  and  sorrows  was  about  me  once 

again. 


36 


THE  PADRE 

CAPT.    C.    W.    BLACKALL 

'E's  a  sportsman  is  our  Padre, 

Of  that  there  ain't  a  doubt. 
'E  don't  chuck  religion  at  yer, 

An'  preach  at  yer  an'  spout  ; 
An'  if  'e  'ears  yer  cussin', 

As  yer  fillin'  up  ther  bags, 
'E  jest  ses,  "Fumigate  your  throat," 

An'  'ands  yer  out  some  fags. 

'E  don't  take  all  fer  granted 

That  yer  murderers  an'  thieves, 
An'  always  tell  yer,  now's  ther  time 

Fer  turnin'  over  leaves. 
'E'll  wander  round  ther  trenches, 

Jest  to  pass  ther  time  o'  day. 
An'  there  ain't  a  bloke  as  doesn't  feel 

A  man  'as  passed  that  way. 

I  remember  once,  near  Wipers, 

When  things  was  pretty  'ot, 
An'  yer  'ad  ter  keep  yer  nut  down 

If  yer  didn't  want  it  shot; 
While  they  was  fairly  plasterin' 

As  fast  as  they  could  load, 
'E  came  ridin' — mark  yer,  ridin — 

All  down  ther  Menin  Road. 

'E  was  dossin'  in  a  "staminay," 

Pyjamas  all  complete, 
When  a  'igh-explosive  carried 

'Arf  the  'ouse  into  the  street. 
While  other  blokes  was  runnin'  wild, 

An'  kickin'  up  a  row, 
'E  calmly  arsts,  "Pray,  what  is  the 

Correct  procedure  now?" 


37 


They  tells  'im  as  'e'd  better 

Do  a  bunk  for  all  'e's  worth, 
As  'is  bloomin'  "staminay"  is  not 

Ther  safest  spot  on  earth. 
But  'e  'as  a  look  around  'im, 

An'  wags  'is  bally  'ead ; 
Ses  'e,  "It  seems  quite  restful  now," 

An'  back  'e  goes  to  bed. 

But  'e  fairly  put  ther  lid  on 

When  we  made  ther  last  attack : 
If  'is  lads  was  goin'  ter  cop  it, 

'E  weren't  fer  'angin'  back. 
So  'e  'ops  out  of  ther  trenches 

Level  with  ther  foremost  'ound, 
An'  natural  like  'e  stops  one 

An'  gets  a  little  wound. 

'E's  a  sportsman  is  our  Padre, 
Of  that  there  ain't  a  doubt. 

'E  don't  chuck  religion  at  yer, 
An'  preach  at  yer  an'  spout. 

Still,  'e'll  show  ther  way  ter  'Eaven — 
That's  if  anybody  can — 

But  we'd  follow  'im  to  'ell;  'cos  why? 


CORP'RAL'S  CHEVRONS 

ANONYMOUS 
IN  THE  STARS  AND  STRIPES,  A.E.F.,  FRA'NCE 

H,  the  General  with  his  epaulets,  leadin'  a  parade; 
The  Colonel  and   the  Adjutant   a-sportin'  of   their 

braid ; 

The  Major  and  the  Skipper — none  of  'em  look  so  fine 
As  a  newly  minted  corp'ral,  comin'  down  the  line. 


38 


Oh,  the  Bishop  in  his  miter  pacin'  up  the  aisle; 

The    Governor,    frock-coated,    with    a    votes-for-women 

smile ; 

The  Congressman,  the  Mayor — aren't  in  it,  I  opine, 
With  a  newly  minted  corp'ral  comin'  down  the  line. 


THE    OLD   TOP    SERGEANT 

BERTON   BRALEY 

From  Mr.  Braley's  book,  "In  Camp  and  Trench,"  published  and 
copyright,  1918,  by  George  H.  Doran  Company,  New  York.  Special  per- 
mission to  reproduce  in  this  book. 

"Shavetail"  is  a  name  applied  by  enlisted  men  in  the  regular  army 
to  lieutenants  fresh  from  West  Point. 

HP  WENT  Y  years  of  the  army,  of  drawing  a  sergeant's 

pay 
And  helping  the  West  Point  shavetails,  fresh  from  the 

training  school, 
To  handle  a  bunch  of  soldiers  and  drill  'em  the  proper 

way 
(Which   isn't   always   exactly   according   to   book   and 

rule). 
I've  seen  'em  rise  to  Captains  and  Majors  and  Colonels, 

too, 

And  me  still  only  a  sergeant,  the  same  as  I  used  to  be, 
And  I  knew  that  some  of  them  didn't  know  as  much  as 

a  sergeant  knew, 

But  I  stuck  to  my  daily  duty — there  wasn't  a  growl 
from  me. 

Twenty  years  of  the  army, 

Serving  in  peace  and  war, 
Standing  the  drill  of  the  army  mill, 

For  that's  what  they  p^u'd  me  for. 


39 

Twenty  years  with  the  army,  which  wasn't  so  much  for 

size, 
But  man  for  man  I'd  back  it  to  lick  any  troops  on 

earth. 
'Twas  a  proud  little  classy  army,  as  good  as  the  flag  it 

flies, 
And  it  takes  an  old  top  sergeant  to  know  what  the 

flag  is  worth. 

Then — a  shot  at  Sarejevo,  and  hell  burst  over  there 
And  the  kaiser  dragged  us  in  it,  and  the  bill  for  the 

draft  was  passed 
And — they  handed  me  my  commission,  and  some  shoulder 

straps  to  wear, 

And  the  crazy  dream  of  my  rooky  days  had  changed 
to  a  fact  at  last. 

Twenty  years  with  the  army, 
And  it's  great  to  know  they  call 

On  the  guys  like  me  for  what  will  be 
The  mightiest  job  of  all. 

Twenty  years  of  the  army,  of  doing  what  shavetails  bid, 
And  I  know  I  haven't  the  polish  that  fellows  like  that 

will  show, 
And  I  hold  a  high  opinion  of  the  brains  of  a  West  Point 

kid, 
But  I  think  I  can  make  him  hustle  when  it  comes  to 

the  work  I  know. 
But  who  cares  where  we  come  from,  Plattsburg,  ranks, 

or  the  Guard, 
This  isn't  a  pink  tea-party,  but  a  War  to  be  fought 

and  won ; 

There's  a  serious  job  before  us,  a  job  that  is  huge  and 
hard, 


40 


And  the  social  register  don't  count  until  we've  got  it 
done! 

Twenty  years  in  the  army, 

And  now  I've  got  my  chance. 
Have  I  earned  my  straps?   Well,  you  watch  the  chaps 

That  I've  trained  for  the  game  in  France! 


FLAG   EVERLASTING 

A.   G.  RIDDOCH 

"CLAG  of  our  Faith:  lead  on — 
Across  the  sand-blown  plain, 
The  deep  and  trackless  main, 
When  duty's  trumpets  blow, 
Where  frowns  the  freeman's  foe, 
And  right  crushed  to  the  sod 
Lifts  soul  to  righteous  God. 
Flag  of  our  Faith:  lead  on — 

Flag  of  our  Hope :  lead  on — 
When  stormy  clouds  hang  low 
And  chilling  north-winds  blow 
And  days  are  long  and  drear. 
When  nights  breed  grief  and  fear; 
A  rainbow  lights  the  sky 
Whene'er  its  colors  fly. 
Flag  of  our  Hope:  lead  on — 

Flag  of  our  Love:  lead  on — 
In  loyal  hearts  supreme, 
Fairer  than  love's  first  dream, 
Our  first  choice  and  our  last, 
Brightened  by  every  blast, 
Oh,  emblem  pure  and  sweet, 


41 


Thou  can'st  not  know  defeat. 
Flag  of  our  Love:  lead  on — 

Flag  of  our  Home:  lead  on — 
Beneath  thy  folds  we  rest, 
We  live  and  love  our  best, 
The  fairest  roses  blow, 
The  richest  harvests  grow, 
And  care-free  children  play 
And  gladden  every  day. 
Flag  of  our  Home:  lead  on — 

L'ENVOI — 

Flag  of  our  Faith,  our  Hope,  our  Love, 
Flag  of  our  Home,  wave  on  above. 
We'll  live,  we'll  fight,  we'll  die  for  you — 
Flag  Everlasting,  Red,  White  and  Blue. 

THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY  IN  FRANCE 

GEORGE   M.    MAYO 

TJERE'S  to  the  Blue  of  the  wind-swept  North, 

When  we  meet  on  the  fields  of  France; 
May  the  spirit  of  Grant  be  with  you  all 
As  the  sons  of  the  North  advance. 

And  here's  to  the  Gray  of  the  sun-kissed  South, 
When  we  meet  on  the  fields  of  France; 

May  the  spirit  of  Lee  be  with  you  all 
As  the  sons  of  the  South  advance. 

And  here's  to  the  Blue  and  the  Gray  as  one, 
When  we  meet  on  the  fields  of  France; 

May  the  spirit  of  God  be  with  us  all 
As  the  sons  of  the  Flag  advance. 


42 


A  LITTLE  TOWN  IN  SENEGAL 

WILL  THOMPSON 

IN  EVERYBODY'S  MAGAZINE 

Permission   to   reproduce   in   this    book 

T    HEAR  the  throbbing  music  down  the  lanes  of  Afric 

rain: 
The  Afric  spring  is  breaking,  down  in  Senegal  again. 

0  little  town  in  Senegal,  amid  the  clustered  gums, 
Where  are  your  sturdy  village  lads,  who  one  time  danced 

to  drums? 

At  Soissons,  by  a  fountain  wall,  they  sang  their  melodies ; 

And  some  now  lie  in  Flemish  fields,  beside  the  northern 
seas; 

And  some  tonight  are  camped  and  still,  along  the  Marne 
and  Aisne; 

And  some  are  dreaming  of  the  palms  that  bend  in  Afric 
rain. 

The  music  of  the  barracks  half  awakes  them  from  their 
dream ; 

They  smile  and  sink  back  sleepily  along  the  Flemish 
stream. 

They  dream  the  baobab's  white  buds  have  opened  over- 
night ; 

They  dream  they  see  the  solemn  cranes  that  bask  in  morn- 
ing light: 

1  hear  the  great  drums  beating  in  the  square  across  the 

plain. 

Where  are  the  tillers  of  the  soil,  the  gallant,  loyal  train? 
O  little  town  in  Senegal,  amid  the  white-bud  trees, 
At  Soissons,  in  Picardy,  went  north  the  last  of  these! 


43 


A  LITTLE  GRIMY-FINGERED  GIRL 


LEE  WILSON  DODD 

IN  THE  OUTLOOK 

Permission  to  reproduce  in  this  book 

In  sending  his  permission  to  use  this  sharp  flash  of  the 
spirit  of  France,  Mr.  Dodd  wrote :  "It  may  interest  you  to  know  that 
the  little  grimy-fingered  girl  is  real,  and  that  I  bought  'L'Intrans'  from 
her  every  evening  for  many  months  during  the  dark  days  of  last  spring 
in  Paris."  The  spring  referred  to  being  that  of  1918,  when  the  Germans 
were  only  a  few  miles  from  the  city. 

A   LITTLE  grimy-fingered  girl 

In  stringy  black  and  broken  shoes 
Stands  where  sharp  human  eddies  whirl 
And  offers — news: 

News  from  the  front.     "  'L'lntransigeant* \ 
M'sieu,  comme  d' ordinaire?"   Her  smile 
Is  friendly  though  her  face  is  gaunt; 
There  is  no  guile, 
No  mere  mechanic  flash  of  teeth, 
No  calculating  leer  of  glance  .  .  . 
You  wear  your  courage  like  a  wreath, 
Daughter  of  France. 
Back  of  old  sorrow  in  tired  eyes 
Back  of  endurance,  through  the  night 
That  wearies  you  and  makes  you  wise, 
I  see  a  light 

Unshaken,  proud,  that  does  not  pale, 
— And  you  are  nobody,  my  dear; 
"Une  vraie  gamine"  who  does  not  quail, 
Who  knows  not  fear. 
Rattle  your  sabers,  Lords  of  Hate, 
Ye  shall  not  force  them  to  their  knees! 

A  street-girl  scorns  your  God,  your  State 

The  least  of  these.     .     .     . 

Place  du  Theatre  Frangais, 
Paris,  February,  1918. 


44 


SOLDIERS    OF   THE    SOIL 

EVERARD  JACK  APPLETON 

By  permission  of  Stewart  &   Kidd  Company,  Cincinnati,  Publishers 
of  "With  the  Colors,"  by  Everard  Jack  Appleton.  Copyright,  1917. 

TT'S  a  high-falutin'  title  they  have  handed  us; 

It's  very  complimentary  and  grand ; 
But  a  year  or  so  ago  they  called  us  "hicks,"  you  know — 
An'  joshed  the  farmer  and  his  hired  hand ! 

Now  it's,  "Save  the  country,  Farmer! 

Be  a  soldier  of  the  soil ! 
Show  your  patriotism,  pardner, 

By  your  never  ending  toil." 
So  we're  croppin'  more  than  ever, 

An'  we're  speedin'  up  the  farm. 
Oh,  it's  great  to  be  a  soldier — 
A  sweatin'  sun-burnt  soldier, — 
A  soldier  in  the  furrows — 

Away  from  "war's  alarm!" 

While  fightin'  blight  and  blister, 

We  hardly  get  a  chance 
To  read  about  our  "comrades" 

A-doin'  things  in  France. 
To  raise  the  grub  to  feed  'em 

Is  some  job,  believe  me — plus! 
And  I  ain't  so  sure  a  soldier — 
A  shootin',  scrappin'  soldier, 
That's  livin'  close  to  dyin' — 

Ain't  got  the  best  of  us! 

But  we'll  harrer  and  we'll  harvest, 
An'  we'll  meet  this  new  demand 
Like  the  farmers  always  meet  it — 


45 

The  farmers — and  the  land. 
An'  we  hope,  when  it  is  over 

An'  this  war  has  gone  to  seed, 
You  will  know  us  soldiers  better — 
Th'  sweatin',  reapin'  soldiers, 
Th'  soldiers  that  have  hustled 
To  raise  th'  grub  you  need ! 

It's  a  mighty  fine  title  you  have  given  us, 
A  name  that  sounds  too  fine  to  really  stick ; 

But  maybe  you'll  forget  (when  you  figure  out  your  debt) 
To  call  th'  man  who  works  a  farm  a  "hick." 


THE  CROSS  AND  THE  FLAG 

WILLIAM  HENRY,  CARDINAL  O'CONNELL 
IN  THE  CATHOLIC  SCHOOL  JOURNAL 

"LTAIL,  banner  of  our  holy  faith, 

Redemption's  sacred  sign, 
Sweet  emblem  thou  of  heavenly  hope 

And  of  all  help  divine, 
We  bare  our  heads  in  reverence 

As  o'er  us  is  unfurled 
The  standard  of  the  Cross  of  Christ 

Whose  blood  redeemed  the  world. 

Hail,  banner  of  our  native  land, 

Great  ensign  of  the  free, 
We  love  thy  glorious  Stars  and  Stripes, 

Emblem  of  liberty; 
Lift  high  the  cross,  unfurl  the  flag; 

May  they  forever  stand 
United  in  our  hearts  and  hopes, 

God  and  our  native  land. 


46 


THE    ROAD    TO    FRANCE 

DANIEL    M.    HENDERSON 
Permission   to  reproduce   in   this   book 

The  1917  prize  of  the  National  Arts  Club  of  New  York  was 
awarded  to  Mr.  Henderson's  poem.  It  was  chosen  out  of  more  than 
four  thousand  that  were  submitted. 

HTHANK  God,  our  liberating  lance 

Goes  flaming  on  the  way  to  France! 
To  France — the  trail  the  Gurkhas  found; 
To  France — old  England's  rallying-ground ! 
To  France — the  path  the  Russians  strode! 
To  France — the  Anzacs'  glory  road! 
To  France — where  our  Lost  Legion  ran 
To  fight  and  die  for  God  and  man ! 
To  France — with  every  race  and  breed 
That  hates  Oppression's  brutal  creed! 

Ah,  France,  how  could  our  hearts  forget 
The  path  by  which  came  Lafayette? 
How  could  the  haze  of  doubt  hang  low 
Upon  the  road  of  Rochambeau? 
How  was  it  that  we  missed  the  way 
Brave  Joffre  leads  us  along  today? 
At  last,  thank  God !  At  last,  we  see 
There  is  no  tribal  Liberty! 
No  beacon  lighting  just  our  shores, 
No  Freedom  guarding  but  our  doors. 
The  flame  she  kindled  for  our  sires 
Burns  now  in  Europe's  battle-fires. 
The  soul  that  led  our  fathers  west 
Turns  back  to  free  the  world's  opprest. 

Allies,  you  have  not  called  in  vain; 
We  share  your  conflict  and  your  pain. 
"Old  Glory,"  through  new  stains  and  rents, 
Partakes  of  Freedom's  sacraments. 


47 


Into  that  hell  his  will  creates 
We  drive  the  foe — his  lusts,  his  hates. 
Last  come,  we  will  be  last  to  stay, 
Till  Right  has  had  her  crowning  day. 
Replenish,  comrades,  from  our  veins 
The  blood  the  sword  of  despot  drains, 
And  make  our  eager  sacrifice 
Part  of  the  freely  rendered  price 
You  pay  to  lift  humanity — 
You  pay  to  make  our  brothers  free. 
See,  with  what  proud  hearts  we  advance 
To  France! 


NAZARETH 

"L" 

IN  THE  CHICAGO  TRIBUNE 

On  the  capture  of  the  city  by  the  British  under  General  Allenby, 
September  21,    1918. 

A  CROSS  the  sands  by  Mary's  well 

Along  the  shores  of  Galilee, 
The  paths  are  pitted  deep  with  shell 
And  drab  with  marching  infantry. 

Perhaps  upon  the  self-same  spot 

Where  He  first  lifted  up  His  head, 

In  cellar  straw  and  manger  cot, 
Now  Freedom's  hosts  are  billeted. 

Then  'twas  a  life — now  myriad  death. 
The  Allied  troops  win  Nazareth. 


48 


THE  CRIMSON  CROSS 

ELIZABETH  BROWN  DU  BRIDGE 
IN  THE  DAILY  NEWS,  SAULT  STE.  MARIE 

QUTSIDE  the  ancient  city's  gate 

Upon  Golgotha's  crest 
Three  crosses  stretched  their  empty  arms, 

Etched  dark  against  the  west. 
And  blood  from  nail-pierced  hands  and  feet 

And  tortured  thorn-crowned  head 
And  thrust  of  hatred's  savage  spear 

Had  stained  one  dark  cross  red. 
Emblem  of  shame  and  pain  and  death 

It  stood  beside  the  way, 
But  sign  of  love  and  hope  and  life 

We  lift  it  high  today. 

Where  horror  grips  the  stoutest  heart, 

Where  bursting  shells  shriek  high, 
Where  human  bodies  shrapnel  scourged 

By  thousands  suffering  lie; 
Threading  the  shambles  of  despair, 

Mid  agony  and  strife, 
Come  fleetest  messengers  who  wear 

The  crimson  cross  of  life. 
To  friend  and  foe  alike  they  give 

Their  strength  and  healing  skill, 
For  those  who  wear  the  crimson  cross 

Must  "do  the  Master's  will." 

Can  we,  so  safely  sheltered  here, 

Refuse  to  do  our  part? 
When  some  who  wear  the  crimson  cross 

Are  giving  life  and  heart 
To  succor  those  who  bear  our  flag, 


49 


Who  die  that  we  may  live — 
Shall  we  accept  their  sacrifice 

And  then  refuse  to  give? 
Ah,  no!     Our  debt  to  God  and  man 

We  can,  we  will  fulfill, 
For  we,  who  wear  the  crimson  cross, 

Must  "do  the  Master's  will." 


PIERROT   GOES 

CHARLOTTE  BECKER 

m  EVERYBODY'S  MAGAZINE 
Permission  to  reproduce  in  this  book 

TIP  among  the  chimneys  tall 
^      Lay  the  garret  of  Pierrot. 
Here  came  trooping  to  his  call 

Fancies  no  one  else  might  know; 
Here  he  bade  the  spiders  spin 
Webs  to  hide  his  treasure  in. 

Here  he  heard  the  night  wind  croon 
Slumber-songs  for  sleepyheads; 

Here  he  spied  the  spendthrift  moon 
Strew  her  silver  on  the  leads  ; 

Here  he  wove  a  coronet 

Of  quaint  lyrics  for  Pierrette. 

But  the  bugles  blew  him  down 
To  the  fields  with  war  beset  ; 

Marched  him  past  the  quiet  town, 
Past  the  window  of  Pierrette ; 

Comrade  now  of  sword  and  lance, 

Pierrot  gave  his  dreams  to  France. 


50 


A  SERBIAN  EPITAPH 

V.  STANIMIROVIC 

After  the  retreat  of  the  Serbian  Army  across  the  mountains  of 
Albania  in  1915,  the  survivors  who  reached  the  coast  were  shipped  to 
Corfu.  Here,  and  in  the  neighboring  island  of  Vido,  many  of  them 
died — to  begin  with,  at  the  rate  of  hundreds  a  day.  Some  of  them 
were  buried  at  sea.  Others  lie  in  common  graves.  In  the  midst  of 
the  mounds  which  mark  their  resting-place,  and  which  vary  in  size, 
there  stands  a  cross.  On  it  is  a  Serbian  inscription,  written  by  the  poet, 
V.  Stanimirovic,  and  translated  for  the  London  Westminster  Gazette  by 
Mr.  L.  F.  Waring: 

"\TEVER  a  Serbian  flower  shall  bloom 

In  exile  on  our  far-off  tomb. 
Our  little  ones  shall  watch  in  vain : 
Tell  them  we  shall  not  come  again. 

Yet  greet  for  us  our  fatherland, 

And  kiss  for  us  her  sacred  strand. 

These  mounds  shall  tell  the  years  to  be 
Of  men  who  died  to  make  her  free. 


THE  NIGHTINGALES  OF  FLANDERS 

GRACE   HAZARD   CONKLING 

IN  EVERYBODY'S  MAGAZINE 

Permission   to  reproduce  in  this  book. 
"Le   rossignol   n'est   pas   mobilise." — A    French    Soldier 

HTHE  nightingales  of  Flanders, 
They  had  not  gone  to  war ; 
A  soldier  heard  them  singing 
Where  they  had  sung  before. 

The  earth  was  torn  and  quaking, 

The  sky  about  to  fall; 
The  nightingales  of  Flanders, 

They  minded  not  at  all. 


51 


At  intervals  we  heard  them 

Between  the  guns,  he  said, 
Making  a  thrilling  music 

Above  the  listening  dead. 

Of  woodland  and  of  orchard 

And  roadside  tree  bereft, 
The  nightingales  of  Flanders 

Were  singing  'Trance  is  left!" 

THE  WIDOW 

MISS  C.   M.   MITCHELL 
IN  PUNCH 

Reproduced  by  special  permission   of  the  Proprietors  of  "Punch' 

"VfY  heart  is  numb  with  sorrow; 

The  long  days  dawn  and  wane ; 
To  me  no  sweet  tomorrow 
Will  bring  my  man  again. 

Yet  must  my  grief  be  hidden — 

Life  makes  insistent  claim, 
And  women,  anguish-ridden, 

Their  rebel  hearts  must  tame. 

For  while,  my  vigil  keeping, 

I  face  the  eternal  law, 
Here  on  my  breast  lies  sleeping 

The  son  he  never  saw. 


52 


PERSHING  AT  THE  TOMB  OF  LAFAYETTE 

AMELIA   JOSEPHINE    BURR 

From  Amelia  Josephine  Burr's  book  of  poems,  "The  Silver  Trum- 
pet." Published  and  copyright,  1918,  by  George  H.  Doran  Company, 
New  York.  Special  permission  to  reproduce  in  this  book. 

'T'HEY  knew  they  were  fighting  our  war.  As  the  months 

grew  to  years 
Their  men  and  their  women  had  watched  through  their 

blood  and  their  tears 
For  a  sign  that  we  knew,  we  who  could  not  have  come 

to  be  free 

Without  France,  long  ago.    And  at  last  from  the  threat- 
ening sea 
The  stars  of  our  strength  on  the  eyes  of  their  weariness 

rose 
And  he  stood  among  them,   the  sorrow-strong  hero  we 

chose 
To  carry  our  flag  to  the  tomb  of  that  Frenchman  whose 

name 
A  man  of  our  country  could  once  more  pronounce  without 

shame. 
What  crown  of  rich  words  would  he  set  for  all  time  on 

this  day? 
The  past  and  the  future  were  listening  what  he  would 

say — 
Only   this,    from   the  white-flaming   heart   of   a   passion 

austere, 
Only  this — ah,  but  France  understood!    "Lafayette,  we 

are  here." 


53 


TRAINS 

LIEUT.  JOHN  PIERRE  ROCHE 

From  Lieutenant  Roches  book  of  poems,  "Rimes  in  Olive  Drab." 
Robert  M.  McBride  &  Company,  Publishers,  New  York.  Copyright,  1918. 
Special  permission  to  insert  in  this  book. 

Lieutenant  Roche  has  deftly  caught  and  preserved  in  words  the 
strange  vision  of  unannounced  trains  that  flashed  now  and  then  past 
towns  and  villages  bearing  American  troops  from  unknown  camps  to 
unknown  ports  of  embarkation  —  the  flash  of  faces  of  men  about  whom 
it  was  known  only  that  they  came  from  the  shops  and  fields  of  home 
and  were  going  across  the  seas  to  fight  somewhere,  for  those  who  stood 
and  gazed  as  they  whirled  by.  The  mystery,  the  roar  of  wheels,  the 
eddying  dust  and  the  silence  that  followed  infuse  these  lines  with  pic- 
ture and  sound  that  will  stay  in  the  minds  of  any  who  saw  such  trains 
go  hurrying  away. 


thousands  of  miles 
Of  shining  steel  rails, 
Past  green  and  red  semaphores 
And  unheeding  flagmen, 
Trains  are  running, 
Trains,  trains,  trains. 

Rattling  through  tunnels 

And  clicking  by  way  stations, 

Curving  through  hills,  past  timber, 

Out  into  the  open  places, 

Flashing  past  silos  and  barns 

And  whole  villages, 

Until  finally  they  echo 

Against  the  squat  factories 

That  line  the  approach  to  the  cities. 

Trains,  trains,  trains 

With  the  fire  boxes  wide  open, 

Giant  Moguls  and  old-time  Baldwins 

And  oil-burners  on  the  Southern  Pacific, 

Fire  boxes  wide  open 

Flaring  against  the  night, 

Like  a  tremendous  watch  fire 


54 


Where  the  sentries  cluster  at  their  post. 

Trains,  trains,  trains 

Serpentine  strings  of  cars 

Loaded  with  boys  and  men — 

The  legion  of  the  ten-year  span 

To  whom  has  been  given  the  task 

Of  seeking  the  Great  Adventure. 

Swaying  through  the  North  and  South, 

And  East  and  West, 

Freighted  with  the  Willing 

And  the  Unwilling; 

Packed  with  the  Thinking 

And  the  Unthinking, 

Pushing  on  to  the  Unknown 

Away  from  the  shelter  and  security 

Of  the  accustomed  into  the  Great  Adventure. 

Trains,  trains,  trains 

With  their  coach  sides  scrawled 

With  chalked  bravado  and,  sometimes, 

With  their  windows  black 

With  yelling  boys, 

In  open-mouthed  exultation 

That  they  do  not  feel, 

Rushing  farther  and  farther 

From  the  known  into  the  unseeable. 

Trains,  trains,  trains 

With  sky-larking  boys  in  khaki, 

Munching  sandwiches  and  drinking  pop; 

Or,  tired  and  without  their  depot  swagger, 

Curled  up  on  the  red-plush  seats; 

Or  asleep,  with  a  stranger,  in  the  Pullmans. 


55 


They  rush  past  our  camp, 

Which  lies  against  the  railroad, 

With  the  crossing  alarm  jangling  caution, 

And  fade  into  the  dust  or  night. 

Leaving  us  to  conjecture  where, 

As  they  have  left  others  to  wonder — 

As  they  must  wonder  themselves 

When  they  are  done 

With  the  shouting  and  hand-shaking 

And  kissing  and  hat-waving  and  singing. 

Trains,  trains,  trains 

Clicking  on  into  unforecast  days — 

Away  from  the  shelter  and  security 

Of  the  accustomed  into  the  Great  Adventure. 


CHRIST    IN    FLANDERS 

L.  W. 

IN  THE  SPECTATOR 

"Vj[7  E  had  forgotten  You,  or  very  nearly — 

You  did  not  seem  to  touch  us  very  nearly — 

Of  course  we  thought  about  You  now  and  then; 
Especially  in  any  time  of  trouble — 
We  knew  that  You  were  good  in  time  of  trouble — 

But  we  are  very  ordinary  men. 

And  there  were  always  other  things  to  think  of — 
There's  lots  of  things  a  man  has  got  to  think  of — 

His  work,  his  home,  his  pleasure,  and  his  wife; 
And  so  we  only  thought  of  You  on  Sunday — 
Sometimes,  perhaps,  not  even  on  a  Sunday — 

Because  there's  always  lots  to  fill  one's  life. 


56 

And,  all  the  while,  in  the  street  or  lane  or  byway — 
In  country  lane,  in  city  street,  or  byway — 

You  walked  among  us,  and  we  did  not  see. 
Your  feet  were  bleeding  as  You  walked  our  pavements — 
How  did  we  miss  Your  Footprints  on  our  pavements? — 

Can  there  be  other  folk  as  blind  as  we? 

Now  we  remember;  over  here  in  Flanders — 
(It  isn't  strange  to  think  of  You  in  Flanders)  — 

This  hideous  warfare  seems  to  make  things  clear. 
We  never  thought  about  You  much  in  England — 
But  now  that  we  are  far  away  from  England — 

We  have  no  doubts,  we  know  that  You  are  here. 

You  helped  us  pass  the  jest  along  the  trenches — 
Where,  in  cold  blood,  we  waited  in  the  trenches — 

You  touched  its  ribaldry  and  made  it  ,fme. 
You  stood  beside  us  in  our  pain  and  weakness — 
We're  glad  to  think  You  understand  our  weakness — 

Somehow  it  seems  to  help  us  not  to  whine. 

We  think  about  You  kneeling  in  the  Garden — 
Ah!  God!  the  agony  of  that  dread  Garden — 

We  know  You  prayed  for  us  upon  the  Cross. 
If  anything  could  make  us  glad  to  bear  it — 
'Twould  be  the  knowledge  that  You  willed  to  bear  it — 

Pain — death — the  uttermost  of  human  loss. 

Though  we  forgot  You — You  will  not  forget  us — 
We  feel  so  sure  that  You  will  not  forget  us — 

But  stay  with  us  until  this  dream  is  past. 
And  so  we  ask  for  courage,  strength,  and  pardon — 
Especially,  I  think,  we  ask  for  pardon — 

And  that  You'll  stand  beside  us  to  the  last. 


57 


AN   AMERICAN    CREED 

EVERARD    JACK    APPLETON 

By  permission  of  Stewart  &  Kidd  Company,  Cincinnati,   Publishers 
of  "With  the  Colors,"  by  Everard  Jack  Appleton.     Copyright,  1918. 

CTRAIGHT  thinking, 

Straight  talking, 
Straight  doing, 
And  a  firm  belief  in  the  might  of  right. 

Patience  linked  with  patriotism, 
Justice  added  to  kindliness, 
Uncompromising  devotion  to  this  country, 
And  active,  not  passive,  Americanism. 

To  talk  less,  to  mean  more, 
To  complain  less,  to  accomplish  more, 
And  to  so  live  that  every  one  of  us  is  ready  to  look 
Eternity  in  the  face  at  any  moment,  and  be  unafraid ! 


RUNNER    McGEE 

(WHO  HAD   "RETURN   IF   POSSIBLE"   ORDEKS.) 

EDGAR  A.   GUEST 

From  Edgar  A.  Guest's  book  of  war  time  rhymes,  entitled  "Over 
Here."  Published  and  copyright,  1918,  by  The  Reilly  &  Britton  Company, 
Chicago.  Special  permission  to  insert  in  this  book. 


E  heard  a  good  deal  of  the  telephone  wires," 
He  said  as  we  sat  at  our  ease, 
And  talked  of  the  struggle  that's  taking  men's  lives 

In  these  terrible  days  o'er  the  seas, 
"But  I've  been  through  the  thick  of  the  thing 

And  I  know  when  a  battle's  begun 
It  isn't  the  'phone  you  depend  on  for  help. 
It's  the  legs  of  a  boy  who  can  run. 


58 

"It  isn't  because  of  the  'phone  that  I'm  here. 

Today  you  are  talking  to  me 
Because  of  the  grit  and  the  pluck  of  a  boy. 

His  title  was  Runner  McGee. 
We  were  up  to  our  dead  line  an'  fighting  alone; 

Some  plan  had  miscarried,  I  guess, 
And  the  help  we  were  promised  had  failed  to  arrive. 

We  were  showing  all  signs  of  distress. 

"Our  curtain  of  fire  was  ahead  of  us  still, 

An'  theirs  was  behind  us  an'  thick, 
An'  there  wasn't  a  thing  we  could  do  for  ourselves — 

The  few  of  us  left  had  to  stick. 
You  haven't  much  chance  to  get  central  an'  talk 

On  the  'phone  to  the  music  of  guns ; 
Gettin'  word  to  the  chief  is  a  matter  right  then 

That  is  up  to  the  fellow  who  runs. 

"I'd  sent  four  of  'em  back  with  the  R.  I.  P.  sign, 

Which  means  to  return  if  you  can, 
But  none  of  'em  got  through  the  curtain  of  fire; 

My  hurry  call  died  with  the  man. 
Then  Runner  McGee  said  he'd  try  to  get  through. 

I  hated  to  order  the  kid 
On  his  mission  of  death;  thought  he'd  never  get  by, 

But  somehow  or  other  he  did. 

"Yes,  he's  dead.     Died  an  hour  after  bringing  us  word 

That  the  chief  was  aware  of  our  plight, 
An'  for  us  to  hang  onto  the  ditch  that  we  held ; 

The  reserves  would  relieve  us  at  night. 
Then  we  stuck  to  our  trench  an'  we  stuck  to  our  guns ; 

You  know  how  you'll  fight  when  you  know 
That  new  strength  is  coming  to  fill  up  the  gaps. 

There's  heart  in  the  force  of  your  blow. 


59 


"It  wasn't  till  later  I  got  all  the  facts. 

They  wanted  McGee  to  remain. 
They  begged  him  to  stay.     He  had  cheated  death  once, 

An'  was  foolish  to  try  it  again. 
*R.  I.  P.  are  my  orders/  he  answered  them  all, 

'An'  back  to  the  boys  I  must  go ; 
Four  of  us  died  comin'  out  with  the  news. 

It  will  help  them  to  know  that  you  know.'  " 


THE  SOLDIER'S  FOLKS  AT  HOME 

FROM  THE  CHRISTIAN  HERALD 

\Ji7E  often  sit  upon  the  porch  on  sultry  August  nights, 
When  fireflies  out  upon  the  lawn  are  soft  enchanted 

lights 

From  Fairyland;  when,  far  away,  a  vagrant  nightingale 
Is  sobbing  from  a  bursting  heart  his  tragic  untold  tale. 
We  often  sit  upon  the  porch,  quite  silently,  for  we 
Are  seeing  golden  wonder-worlds  that  no  one  else  may  see. 

My  mother  sighs;  I  feel  her  hand  upon  my  ruffled  hair, 
The  while  I  know  she  thinks  of  one,  of  one  who  is  not 

there.     .     .     . 
And  grandma,  with  her  down-bent  head,  is  dreaming  of 

the  day 
When  to  the  strains  of  "Dixie   Land"  her  sweetheart 

marched  away. 
And  brother  stares  into  the  dusk,  with  vivid  eyes  aflame, 

And  hears  the  stirring  call  to  arms,  to  battle  and  to  fame! 

• 

My  little  sister,  half  asleep,  holds  tight  against  her  breast 
A  battered   doll  with   china   eyes   that   she  herself  has 
dressed ; 


60 

And  baby  brother  holds  my  hand,  and  thinks  of  cakes  and 

toys 
That  grow  on  trees  in  some  fair  land  for  perfect  little 

boys. 
And  auntie  holds  her  head  erect,  and  seems  to  dare  the 

fates 
With  eyes  that  hold  the  glowing  look  of  one  who  hopes 

and  waits. 

We  often  sit  upon  the  porch  on  sultry  August  nights 

When  fireflies  out  upon  the  lawn  are  vague  enchanted 
lights, 

And  no  one  speaks,  for  each  one  dreams  and  plans,  per- 
haps, and  strays, 

A  wanderer  through  years  to  come,  a  ghost  through 
bygone  days, 

And  as  the  stars  far  in  the  sky  come  shining  softly 
through, 

My  heart  and  soul  are  all  one  prayer — one  silver  prayer 
for  you. 

THREE    HILLS 

EVERARD   OWEN 

From  Mr.  Owen's  book,  "Three  Hills  and  Other  Poems."  Sidgwick 
&  Jackson,  Ltd.,  Publishers,  London,  England.  Special  permission  to 
insert  in  this  book. 

'T'HERE  is  a  hill  in  England, 

Green  fields  and  a  school  I  know, 
Where  the  balls  fly  fast  in  summer,     • 
And  the  whispering  elm-trees  grow, 

A  little  hill,  a  dear  hill, 
And  the  playing  fields  below. 


61 

There  is  a  hill  in  Flanders, 

Heaped  with  a  thousand  slain, 

Where  the  shells  fly  night  and  noontide 
And  the  ghosts  that  died  in  vain — 

A  little  hill,  a  hard  hill, 
To  the  souls  that  died  in  pain. 

There  is  a  hill  in  Jewry, 

Three  crosses  pierce  the  sky, 
On  the  midmost  He  is  dying 

To  save  all  those  who  die — 
A  little  hill,  a  kind  hill 

To  souls  in  jeopardy. 

MIKE    DILLON,    DOUGHBOY 

LIEUT.   JOHN   PIERRE   ROCHE 

From  Lieutenant  Roche's  book  of  poems,  "Rimes  in  Olive  Drab." 
Robert  M.  McBride  &  Company,  Publishers,  New  York.  Copyright,  1918. 
Special  permission  to  insert  in  this  book. 

"Doughboy"  is  an  old  nickname  for  a  United  States  infantryman. 
When  our  army  went  into  what  is  now  New  Mexico,  Arizona  and 
California  to  quiet  the  Mexicans  hostilities  that  preceded  the  war  of 
1846,  the  infantry  fell  into  a  way  of  camping  in  houses  built  by  -the 
natives  with  sun-dried  bricks  of  adobe  mud.  The  cavalry,  having  to 
lie  in  the  open  with  the  horses,  were  joked  thereat  and  came  back 
by  calling  the  infantry  dobie  boys.  The  name  stuck  and  by  an  easy  slide 
arrived  at  the  present  form. 

IKE  DILLON  was  a  doughboy 

And  wore  the  issue  stuff; 
He  wasn't  much  to  look  at — 

In  fact,  was  rather  rough; 
He  served  his  time  as  rookie — 

At  drilling  in  the  sun, 
And  cleared  a  lot  of  timber 
And  polished  up  his  gun. 

Mike  Dillon  was  a  private 
With  all  the  word  entails; 


62 


He  cussed  and  chewed  tobacco 
And  overlooked  his  nails. 

You  never  saw  Mike  Dillon 
At  dances  ultra  nice  ; 

In  fact,  inspection  found  him 
Enjoying  body  lice. 

If  Mike  had  married  money 

Or  had  a  little  drag, 
He  might  have  got  a  brevet 

And  missed  a  little  "fag"; 
But  as  a  social  figure 

He  simply  wasn't  there — 
So  Mike  continued  drilling 

And  knifing  up  his  fare. 

In  course  of  time  they  shipped  'em 

And  shipped  'em  over  where 
A  man  like  Mike  can  sidestep 

The  frigid  social  stare, 
And  do  the  job  of  soldier 

Without  the  fancy  frills, 
And  keep  a  steady  footing 

In  the  pace  that  really  kills. 

Now  Mike  did  nothing  special ; 

He  only  did  his  best: 
He  stuck  and  "went  on  over" — 

And  got  it  in  the  chest  ; 
He  played  it  fair  and  squarely 

Without  a  social  air, 
And  Mike  is  now  in  heaven 

And  at  least  a  corporal  there! 


63 

WHEN  THE  FRENCH  BAND  PLAYS 

ANONYMOUS 

IN  THE  STABS  AND  STRIPES,  A.E.F.,  FRANCE 

HT HERE'S  a  military  band  that  plays,  on  Sunday  after- 
•*•         noons, 

In  a  certain  nameless  city's  quaint  old  square. 
It  can  rouse  the  blood  to  battle  with  its  patriotic  tunes, 

And  still  render  hymns  as  gentle  as  a  prayer. 
When  it  starts  "Ave  Maria"  there  is  no  one  in  the  throng 

But  would  doff  his  cap,  his  heart  to  heaven  raise; 
And  who  would  shrink  from  combat  when,  with  brasses 
sounding  strong, 

There  is  flung  out  on  the  breeze  "La  Marseillaise"? 

When  it  starts  to  render  "Sambre  et  Meuse,"  the  march 

that  won  the  day 

At  the  battle  of  the  Marne,  one  sees  again 
The  grey-green  hosts  of  Hundom  melt  before  the  stern 

array 

Of  our  gallant  sister-ally's  blue-clad  men. 
And  when  it  plays  our  Anthem,  with  rendition  bold  and 

clear — 

While  the  khaki  lads  stand  steady — then  we  feel 
That,  though  tongues  and  ways  may  vary,  we've  found 

brothers  over  here, 
Tried  in  war,  and  in  allegiance  true  as  steel. 

For  it's  olive-drab,  horizon-blue,  packed  closely  side  by 

side, 

Till  their  colors  set  ablaze  the  grey  old  square; 
And  it's  olive-drab,  horizon-blue,  whatever  may  betide, 

That  will  blaze  the  way  to  victory  "up  there." 
So,  while  standing  thus  together,  let  us  pledge  anew  our 

troth 

To  the  Cause — the  world  set  free ! — for  which  we  fight. 
As  the  evening  twilight  gilds  the  ranks  of  blue  and  khaki 

both, 
And  the  bugles  die  away  into  the  night. 


64 

THE  OLD  GANG  ON  THE  CORNER 

WILLIAM  HERSCHELL 
IN  COLLIER'S  WEEKLY 

Permission  to  reproduce  in  this  book 

'"THE  Old  Gang  on  the  Comer!    What  an  arrant  tribe 

they  were; 

The  Widow  Kelly's  Connie — he  had  always  worried  her! 
The   Schultz  boys,  Jake  and   Rudy;   the   parson's  own, 

Chub  Smith, 
"Who,"  sister  told  the  neighbors,  "they  can't  do  nothin' 

with." 
Young  Tony  Boots,  the  Dago,  and  Scamp,  the  tinner's 

son — 
To  them  a  mischief  thought  of  was  a  mischief  quickly 

done. 

The  Old  Gang  on  the  Corner!  In  the  arc  light's  friend- 
ly glow 

They  trooped  each  night  till  Tim  the  Cop  came  by  and 
made  them  go. 

But  all  that  now  is  ended,  for  the  Sword  of  Hate  is 
drawn — 

The  Old  Gang  on  the  Corner  from  its  happy  haunt  is 
gone. 

The  street  lamp  idly  sputters;  Tim,  the  lonely,  walks 
iiis  beat, 

His  good  heart  well  ahunger  for  the  Old  Gang  in  the 
street. 

The  Old  Gang  on  the  Corner!     Now  each  loyal  mother 

brags 

No  other  neighborhood  can  boast  as  many  service  flags. 
Con  Kelly's  won  a  sergeantcy;  the  parson's  black-sheep 

son 
Has  had  his  picture  printed  for  heroic  deeds  he's  done. 


65 

The  Scfoultz  boys,  in  the  navy,  though  they  yet  are  in 
their  teens, 

Are  mates  with  Scamp  and  Tony  in  the  chase  for  sub- 
marines. 

The  Old  Gang  on  the  Corner!    Yes,  we've  all  forgotten 

now 

The  Hallowe'en  they  calcimined  McDougall's  muley  cow, 
We've  put  aside  the  memories  of  cream  and  cake  they 

stole 
When  our  church  had  a  festival  to  pay  for  last  year's 

coal. 
All  that  is  in  the  Yesterday — they're  now  our  fighting 

men — 
And,  God,  won't  we  be  happy  if  they  all  come  home 

again  ? 


THE  BATTLE-LINE 

J.   B.   BOLLARD 

IN  THE  GLOBE,  TORONTO 

Permission  to  reproduce  in  this  book 

A  THWART  that  land  of  bloss'ming  vine 
*•  ^     Stretches  the  awful  battle-line ; 
A  lark  hangs  singing  in  the  sky, 
With  sullen  shrapnel  bursting  nigh! 
Along  the  poplar-bordered  road 
The  peasant  trudges  with  his  load, 
While  horsemen  and  artillery 
Rush  to  red  fields  that  are  to  be! 
The  plains  for  tillage  furrowed  well 
Are  now  replowed  with  shot  and  shell! 
The  ditches,  swollen  by  the  rain, 
Show  bloated  faces  of  the  slain. 
The   hedge-rows    sweet   with    leaf    and    flower 
Now  mask  the  cannon's  murderous  power! 


66 


Small  birds  by  household  cares  opprest 
Beg  truce  and  time  to  build  their  nest. 
The  sun  sinks  down — oh,  blest  release! 
And  the  spent  world  cries  out  for  peace, 
In  vain!     In  vain!     Tho'  mild  stars  shine, 
War  wakes  the  thundering  battle-line. 


A  CHANT  OF  ARMY  COOKS 

ANONYMOUS 

IN  THE  STARS  AND  STRIPES,  A.E.F.,  FRANCE 

never  were  made  to  be  seen  on  parade 
When  sweethearts  and  such  line  the  streets; 
When  the  band  starts  to  blare,   look  for  us — we  ain't 

there — 

We're  mussing  around  with  the  eats. 
It's  fun  to  step  out  to  the  echoing  shout 

Of  a  crowd  that  forgets  how  you're  fed, 
While  we're  soiling  our  duds  hacking  eyes  out  of  spuds — 
You  know  what  Napoleon  said. 

When  the  mess  sergeant's  gay,  you  can  bet  hell's  to  pay 

For  the  boys  who  are  standing  in  line; 
When  the  boys  get  a  square,  then  the  sergeant  is  there 

With  your  death  warrant  ready  to  sign. 
If  you're  long  on  the  grub,  then  you're  damned  for  a  dub, 

If  you're  short,  you're  a  miser  instead, 
But,  however  you  feel,  you  must  get  the  next  meal — 

You  know  what  Napoleon  said. 

You  think  it's  a  cinch  when  you  come  to  the  clinch 

For  the  man  who  is  grinding  the  meat; 
In  the  heat  of  the  fight,  why  the  cook's  out  of  sight 

With  plenty  of  room  to  retreat. 


67 


But  a  plump  of  a  shell  in  a  kitchen  is  hell 
When  the  roof  scatters  over  your  head, 

And  you  crawl  on  your  knees  to  pick  up  the  K.  P.'s 
You  know  what  Napoleon  said. 

If  the  war  ever  ends,  we'll  go  back  to  our  friends  — 

In  the  army  we've  nary  a  one; 
We'll  list  to  the  prattle  of  this  or  that  battle, 

And  then,  when  the  story  is  done, 
We'll  say,  when  they  ask,  "Now  what  was  your  task, 

And  what  is  the  glory  you  shed?" 
"You  see.  how  they  thrive  —  well,  we  kept  'em  alive! 

You  know  what  Napoleon  said." 

THE  DRUM 

JOSEPH   LEE 
"Come    to    me,    and    I    will    give    you    flesh."  —  Old    Pibrochadh. 


^     Says  the  drum; 

Though  graves  be  hollow, 

Yet  follow,  follow: 
Come! 
Says  the  drum. 

Life! 

Shrills  the  fife, 

Is  in  strife  — 

Leave  love  and  wife: 

Come! 

Says  the  drum. 

Ripe! 

Screams  the  pipe, 

Is  the  field- 

Swords    and    not   sickles   wield 
Come! 
Says  the  drum. 


68 


The  drum 
Says,  Come! 

Though   graves  be  hollow, 

Yet  follow,  follow: 
Come! 
Says  the  drum. 


THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

MAJOR  KENDALL  BANNING 
SIGNAL  RESERVE  CORPS,  AVIATION  SECTION,   U.   S.  ARMY 


,  the  Master  Pilot, 
Or  gods,  if  such  there  be— 
Pour  me  no  weakling's  measure 

When  ye  pour  the  wine  for  me  ! 
Of  pain,  of  love,  of  pleasure, 

I'll  drain  the  draught  ye  give; 
Of  good  and  ill,  give  me  the  fill 
Of  the  life  ye  bade  me  live! 

Spare  me  no  tithe  of  favor, 

With  fortune  pave  my  path, 
Nor  hold  the  hand  of  vengeance 

When  I  deserve  your  wrath. 
Whatever  fates  ye  send  me, 

Whatever  cast  the  sky, 
Grant   me   the  grace   to  live   a  man 

And  as  a  man  to  die! 

Upon  the  good  I  render 

Let  shine  your  proudest  sun: 
And  rest  me  in  the  valleys 

When  my  last  trick  is  done. 
For  these  your  utmost  portions, 

I'll  pay  the  utmost  toll, 
So  this  my  life,  become  the  great 

Adventure  of  my  soul  ! 


69 


TO  THE  WRITER  OF  "CHRIST  IN  FLANDERS" 

E.  M.  V. 
IN  THE  SPECTATOR 

the  battlefields  of  Flanders  men  have  blessed  you 
in  their  pain ; 

For  you  told  us  Who  was  with  us,  and  your  words  were 
not  in  vain. 

All  you  said  was  very  gentle,  but  we  felt  you  knew  our 

ways ; 
And  we  tried  to  find  the  Footprints  we  had  missed   in 

other  days. 

When  we  found  Those  blood-stained  Footsteps,  we  have 

followed  to  the  End ; 
For  we  know  that  only  Death  can  show  the  features  of 

our  Friend. 

In  the  Mansions  of  the  Master,  He  will  make  the  mean- 
ing plain 
Of  the  battlefields  of  Flanders,  of  the  Crucifix  of  Pain. 


TO  SOMEBODY 

HAROLD     SETON 
IN    MUNSEY'S    MAGAZINE 

Permission   to   reproduce   in   this   book. 

'"THEY'VE  put  us  through  our  paces; 

They  say  we're  doing  fine ; 
We'll  soon  go  to  our  places 

Upon  the  firing-line. 
Some  chaps  will  fight  for  mothers, 

And  some  for  wives  so  true; 


70 


For  sweethearts  many  others, 
And  I  w-ill  fight  for  you! 

Through  all  these  months  of  training 

We've  cherished  hopeful  thoughts 
And  drilled  without  complaining, 

Like  soldiers  and  good  sports. 
We're  warring  for  a  reason, 

We've  sworn  to  see  this  through ; 
To  falter  would  be  treason, 

And  I  will  fight  for  you! 

Your  presence  will  be  near  me, 

Your  voice  will  call  my  name ; 
You'll  comfort  me  and  cheer  me, 

Your  love,  behold,  I  claim ! 
'T would  take  more  than  an  ocean 

To  separate  us  two; 
I'll  hold  unto  this  notion, 

,And  I  will  fight  for  you! 


WAR 

COL.  WILLIAM  LIGHTFOOT  VISSCHER 
IN   THE   SCOOP,   THE   CHICAGO   PRESS   CLUB'S   MAGAZINE 

"D  Y  blazing  homes,  through  forests  torn 

And  blackened  harvest  fields, 
The  grim  and  drunken  god  of  war 
In  frenzied  fury  reels. 

His  breath — the  sulph'rous  stench  of  guns — 

That  death  and  famine  deals 
And  Pity,  pleading,  wounded  falls 

Beneath  his  steel-shod  heels. 


A    MARCHING    SOLILOQUY 

BY    A    MEMBER    OF    THE    S.    A.    T.    C.,    NORTHWESTERN 
COLLEGE,    NAPERVILLE,    ILL. 

"Left! 
Left!" 

Had  a  good  girl  when  I 
"Left! 
Left!" 
Mighty  good  pal  when  I 

"Left!" 

"One!     Two!     Three!     Four!" 
How 
many 
miles 
more? 
"Left! 

"Left! 
Left!" 

Booked  for  a  wife  when  I 
"Left! 
Left!" 
That  was  my  life  when  I 

"Left!" 

"One!  •  Two!     Three!     Four!" 
Hear 
old 

Lieutenant 
roar 
"Left!" 


72 


WHILE  SUMMERS  PASS 

ALINE  MICHAELIS 
IN  THE  ENTERPRISE,  BEAUMONT,  TEXAS 

CUMMER  comes  and  summer  goes, 
Buds  the  primrose,  fades  the  rose; 

But  his  footfall  on  the  grass, 
Coming  swiftly  to  my  door, 
I  shall  hear  again  no  more, 

Though  a  thousand  summers  pass. 

Once  he  loved  the  clovers  well, 
Loved  the  larkspur  and  bluebell. 

And  the  scent  the  plum-blooms  yield  ; 
But  strange  flowers  his  soul  beguiled, 
Pallid  lilies,  laurels  wild, 

Blooming  in  a  crimson  field. 

So  he  plucked  the  laurels  there, 
And  he  found  them  sweet  and  fair 

In  that  field  of  blood-red  hue; 
And,  when  on  a  summer  night  . 
Moonlight  drenched  my  clovers  white, 

Lo!    He  plucked  Death's  lilies,  too. 

It  may  be  that  e'en  to-night, 
In  the  Gardens  of  Delight, 

Where  his  shining  soul  must  dwell, 
He  has  found  some   flowers  more  sweet 
Than  the  clovers  at  my  feet, 

Some  celestial  asphodel. 

But  while  summer  comes  and   goes, 
With  the  primrose  and  the  rose 

Comes  his  footfall  on  the  grass — 
Gladly,  lightly  to  my  door — 
I  shall  hear  it  echo  o'er, 

Though  a  thousand  summers  pass. 


73 


THE  MARINES 

ADOLPHE    E.    SMYLIE 

OF   THE   VIGILANTES 
Permission   to  reproduce   in  this  book 

"DARDON!  he  has  no  Engleesh,  heem, 

II  ne  parle  que  Franchise, 
I  spik  it  leetle  some  Monsieur, 

Vaire  bad,  j'en  suis  fache — 
Marines  ?   Mais  oui !   I  fight  wiz  zem 

At  Chateau  Thierry 
An'  on  ze  Ourcq  an'  Marne  in  grand 

Bon  camaraderie. 
I  see  zem  fight  at  bois  Belleau, 

Like  sauvage  make  ze  yell, — 
Sacre  nom  de  Dieu!  zoze  sailor  man 

Eez  fightin'  like  ze  hell! 
All  time  zey  smile  when  make  ze  push, 

Magnifique  zaire  elan, 
Zey  show  ze  heart  of  lion 

For  delight  our  brav  Franchman. 
An'  in  ze  tranch  at  rest,  zoze  troop 

From  ze  Etats  Unis 
Queeck  make  ze  good  frien'  of  poilu 

Wiz  beeg  slap  on  ze  knee! 
Zey  make  ze  song  an'  joke,  si  drole 

An'  pass  ze  cigarette; 
Zey  call  us  goddam  good  ol'  scout 

Like  Marquis  La  Fayette. 
Next  day,  mebbee,  again  ze  taps — 

Ze  volley  in  ze  air. — 
Adieu!  some  fightin'  sailor  man 

Eez  gone  West.   C'est  la  guerre! 
No  more  ze  smile,  ze  hug,  ze  hand 

Queeck  wiz  ze  cigarette; 


74 


C'est  vrai,  at  funerall  of  heem 

Ze  poilu's  eye  eez  wet. 
But,  every  day  like  tidal  wave, — 

Like  human  avalanche, — 
Ze  transport  bring  more  Yankee  troop, 

To  get  ze  beeg  revanche! 
Zen  from  ze  heart  Americaine 

Come  milliards  of  monnaie; 
Eet  eez  ze  end !  Your  country  bring 

Triomphant  liberte. 
So,  au  revoir!  I  mus'  go  on 

But  first  I  tell  to  you 
What  some  high  Officier  remark 

Zat  day  at  bois  Belleau. 
He  says,  our  great  Napoleon 

Wiz  envy  would  turn  green 
Eef  he  could  see  zoze  sailor  man, — 

Zoze  Uncle  Sam  Marines!" 


AN  AMBULANCE  DRIVER'S  PRAYER 

LIEUT.    CHAPLAIN   THOMAS    F.    COAKLEY 
IN  THE  STARS  AND  STRIPES,  A.E.F.,  FRANCE 

ID  blinding  rain  this  inky  night, 

Loud  bursting  shells  each  foot  of  road, 
Thy  Light,  O  Christ,  will  guide  me  right, 
To  save  this  gasping,  dying  load. 

Their  shattered  limbs  have  followed  Thee; 

Their  wounded  hands  have  done  Thy  work. 
They  bled,  O  Lord,  to  make  men  free; 

They  fought  the  fight — they  did  not  shirk, 


75 


NOT  TOO  OLD  TO  FIGHT 

T.   C.  HARBAUGH 
IN  THE  CHICAGO  LEDGER 

"VfY   name  is   Danny  Bloomer  and   my   age   is  eighty- 
three, 

Years  ago  I  went  with  Sherman  to  the  ever  sunny  sea. 
I  stood   my  ground  at  Gettysburg,  that  bloody  summer 

day, 
When  gallant  Pickett  rushed  the  hill  and  lost  his  boys 

in  gray; 

And  now  our  starry  banner  is  insulted  and  defied, 
The  kaiser  tears  it  into  shreds  and  glories  in  his  pride; 
Just  pass  the  word  across  the  sea  to  his  stronghold  of 

might, 
And  say  that  Danny  Bloomer's  here  and  not  too  old  to 

fight. 

I  gave  my  youth  to  Uncle  Sam  in  years  I'll  ne'er  forget, 
In  mem'ry  of  those  stirring  times  my  old  blood  tingles 

yet. 
With  four  score  years  upon  me  I  can  lift  the  same  old 

gun, 

And  to  face  our  Flag's  insulter  will  be  everlasting  fun. 
Please  say  that  Danny  Bloomer  is  ready  for  the  fray, 
Cry   "Forward,   march!"   and  see   him   in   the  good   old 

ranks  today. 

I  love  the  flag  of  Washington  because  it  stands  for  Right, 
And  that  is  why  I  tell  you  I  am  not  too  old  to  fight. 

'Tis  true  I'm  somewhat  crippled,  but  I  do  not  care  for 

that, 

I  feel  as  young  as  when  I  saw  the  tilt  of  Sherman's  hat ; 
I  want  to  do  my  duty  again  before  I  die, 
And  see  Old  Glory  proudly  in  the  streets  of  Berlin  fly. 


76 

I  do  not  know  the  kaiser,  but  I  hope  within  a  year 
Amid  the  roar  of  cannon  he  will  say,  "Old  Bloomer's 

here!" 

Yes,  hand  me  down  a  rifle  and  I  will  use  it  right, 
Your  Uncle  Danny  Bloomer  isn't  yet  too  old  to  fight. 
We've  borne  their  insults  long  enough — they  make  me 

long  to  go. 

I  want  to  squint  along  my  gun  and  aim  it  at  the  foe ; 
I'll  eat  the  same  old  rations  that  I  ate  in  '64, 
And  feel  the  blood  of  youth  again  amid  the  battle's  roar. 
I  haven't  long  to  tarry  here  until  my  work  is  done, 
But  I  want  to  show  the  kaiser  we're  not  in  it  for  fun ; 
So    give    me    marching   orders    and    I'll    disappear    from 

sight, 
For  I  am  Danny  Bloomer,  and  I'm  not  too  old  to  fight. 


A  WAYSIDE  IN  FRANCE 

ADOLPHE   E.   SMYLIE 

IN  THE  NEW  YORK  HERALD 

Permission  to  repi'oduce  in  this  book 


shake  hands,  my  little  peach  blossom. 
That's  right,  dear,  climb  up  on  my  knee. 
This  big  Yankee  soldier  is  lonesome  — 
Ah,  now  we'll  be  friends,  ma  cherie. 
We  won't  understand  one  another, 
Your  round  eyes  are  telling  me  so, 
But  the  cling  of  your  chubby  fingers 
Is  a  language  that  all  daddies  know. 
When  I  caught  a  sight  of  your  pigtails 
And  those  eyes  of  violet  blue, 
It  made  me  heart-hungry,  ma  petite, 


77 


For  I've  a  wee  girl  just  like  you. 

She  lives  'way  across  the  wide  ocean. 

Out  where  the  bald  eagles  nest, 

And  she  knows  all  the  chipmunks  and  gophers 

At  my  shack  out  in  the  West." 

"Tu  dis  1'ouest!     Est-ce  ton  pays? 
Veux-tu,  quand  tu  iras  chez-toi— 
Maman  est  toujours  a  pleurer — 
Me  retrouver  mon  soldat  Papa? 
II  etait  avec  sa  batterie 
Pres  des  Anglais  la,  en  campagne, 
Mais  Papa  est  alle  dans  1'ouest, 
Des  Anglais  disaient  a  Maman. 
Alors,   Maman  sera  heureuse 
Et,  tu  vois  elle  ne  pleurera  plus; 
Je  veux  te  donner  un  baiser, — 
Merci !   Tu  es  si  bon  pour  nous!" 

There  she  goes!     She  told  me  her  secret, 

Kissed  me  and  then  flew  away, — 

Say,  Poilu!     You  savez  some  English, 

Now  what  did  that  little  tot  say? 

"She  say  Engleeshman  toF  her  Mama 

Zat  her  soldat  Papa  eez  gone  West ! 

You  said  West,  bien !    Zen  you  live  zaire, 

So  she  make  you  her  leetle  request, 

Zat  you  find  heem  in  your  countree 

So  her  Mama  no  more  she  weel  cry ; 

Zen  she  thank  you  an'  kees  you,  si  joyeuse, — 

Pauvre  mignonne,  she  think  you  weel  try!" 


78 


MISSING 


"IRIS" 
FROM   B.   L.   T.'s  COLUMN  IN   THE    CHICAGO  TRIBUNE 

THE  soldier  boys  are  marching,  are  marching  past  my 

door  ; 
They're  off  to  fight  for  Freedom,  to  wage  and  win  the 

war; 

And  yet  I  cannot  cheer  them,  my  eyes  are  full  of  tears — 
My  son,  who  should  be  with  them,  is  dead  these  many 

years. 

I've  missed   his  boyish   laughter,   I've  missed   his  sunny 

ways, 

I've  lived  alone  with  sorrow  through  endless  empty  days. 
But  now  my  bitter  longing  dims  all  the  grief  before — 
His  boyhood  friends  are  marching,  without  him,  past  my 
door. 

I've  envied  happy  mothers  the  children  at  their  knee; 
Their  very  joys  seemed  given  to  mock  my  grief  and  me. 
Time  healed  those  wounds,  but  this  one  will  pain  me 

while  I  live — 
When  Freedom  called  her  warriors,  I  had  no  son  to  give. 

And  still  the  boys  are  marching,  are  marching  toward  the 

sea, 

To  suffer  and  to  conquer,  that  all  men  may  be  free. 
Be  glad  for  them,  O  mothers !  and  leave  to  me  the  tears — 
My  son,  who  should  be  with  them,  is  dead  these  many 

years. 


79 


THE    RIVERS    OF    FRANCE 

H.  J.  M. 
IN  THE  ENGLISH  REVIEW 

'T'HE  rivers  of  France  are  ten  score  and  twain, 
•*•         But  five  are  the  names  that  we  know — 
The  Marne,  the  Vesle,  the  Ourcq,  and  the  Aisne, 
And  the  Somme  of  the  swampy  flow. 

The  rivers  of  France,  from  source  to  the  sea, 

Are  nourished  by  many  a  rill, 
But  these  five,  if  ever  a  drought  there  be, 

The  fountains  of  sorrow  would  fill. 

The  rivers  of  France  shine  silvery  white, 

But  'the  waters  of  five  are  red 
With  the  richest  blood,  in  the  fiercest  fight 

For  Freedom,  that  ever  was  shed. 

The  rivers  of  France  sing  soft  as  they  run, 

But  five  have  a  song  of  their  own, 
That  hymns  the  fall  of  the  arrogant  one 

And  the  proud  cast  down  from  his  throne. 

The  rivers  of  France  all  quietly  take 
To  sleep  in  the  house  of  their  birth, 

But  the  carnadined  wave  of  five  shall  break 
On  the  uttermost  strands  of  Earth. 

Five  rivers  of  France,  see  their  names  are  writ 

On  a  banner  of  crimson  and  gold, 
And  the  glory  of  those  who  fashioned  it 

Shall  nevermore  cease  to  be  told. 


80 


JUST  THINKING 

HUDSON  HAWLEY 
IN  THE  STARS  AND  STRIPES,  A.  E.  F.,  FRANCE 

CTANDIN'  up  here  on  the  fire-step, 

Lookin'  ahead  in  the  mist, 
With  a  tin  hat  over  your  ivory 

And  a  rifle  clutched  in  your  fist ; 
Waitin'  and  watchin'  and  wond'rin' 

If  the  Hun's  comin'  over  tonight — 
Say,  aren't  the  things  you  think  of 

Enough  to  give  you  a  fright? 

Things  you  ain't  even  thought  of 

For  a  couple  o'  months  or  more; 
Things  that  'ull  set  you  laughin', 

Things  that  'ull  make  you  sore ; 
Things  that  you  saw  in  the  movies, 

Things  that  you  saw  on  the  street, 
Things  that  you're  really  proud  of 

Things  that  are — not  so  sweet; 

Debts  that  are  past  collectin', 

Stories  you  hear  and  forget, 
Ball  games  and  birthday  parties, 

Hours  of  drill  in  the  wet; 
Headlines,  recruitin'  posters, 

Sunset  'way  out  at  sea, 
Evenings  of  pay-days — golly — 

It's  a  queer  thing,  this  memory! 

Faces  of  pals  in  Homeburg, 

Voices  of  womenfolk, 
Verses  you  learnt  in  schooldays 

Pop  up  in  the  mist  and  smoke 


81 


As  you  stand  there  grippin'  that  rifle, 
A-starin',  and  chilled  to  the  bone, 

Wonderin'  and  wonderin'  and  wonde-rin', 
Just  thinkin'  there — all  alone: 

When  will  the  war  be  over? 

When  will  the  gang  break  through? 
What  will  the  U.  S.  look  like? 

What  will  there  be  to  do? 
Where  will  the  Boches  be  then? 

Who  will  have  married  Nell? 
When's  the  relief  a-comin'  up? — 

Gosh!     But  this  thinkin's  hell! 


THE  EVENING  STAR 

HAROLD    SETON 
IN   THE  CHICAGO  EVENING  POST 

PHE  evening  star  a  child  espied, 

The  one  star  in  the  sky. 
"Is  that  God's  service  flag?"  he  cried, 
And  waited  for  reply. 

The  mother  paused  a  moment  ere 

She  told  the  little  one — 
"Yes,  that  is  why  the  star  is  there ! 

God  gave  His  only  Son!" 


82 


COLUMBIA'S  PRAYER 

THOMAS  P.  BASHAW 

*  IN  THE  HERALD  AND  EXAMINER,  CHICAGO 

Permission  to  reproduce  in  this  book 

"DOY  in  khaki,  boy  in  blue, 

I  am  watching  over  you, 
Going  forth  amid  the  rattle 
Of  the  drums  that  call  to  battle. 

Oft  have  men  waged  fight  for  me, 
Fought  to  make  their  brothers  free; 
God  protect  and  succor  you, 
Boy  in  khaki,  boy  in  blue. 

God  go  with  you  on  your  mission, 
And  in  His  all-wise  decision 
Turn  this  tide  of  war  to  you, 
Boy  in  khaki,  boy  in  blue. 

With  the  Stars  and  Stripes  high  o'er  you, 
Snatch  the  vic'try  just  before  you, 
Heaven   keep,   encompass  you, 
Boy  in  khaki,  boy  in  blue. 

When  the  foe  is  rent  asunder, 
And  the  world  looks  on  in  wonder, 
Paying  tribute  rare  to  you, 
Boy  in  khaki,  boy  in  blue, 

God  return  you  safe  to  me; 
To  Columbia — Liberty; 
'Tis  my  prayer,  my  hope  for  you, 
Boy  in  khaki,  boy  in  blue. 


S3 


TWO  VIEWPOINTS 

AMELIA   JOSEPHINE   BURR 

OF  THE  VIGILANTES 
Permission  to  reproduce  in  this  book. 

A  German  soldier  in  his  journal  wrote: 

"LIE  was  a  French  Boy  Scout — a  little  lad 

No  bigger  than  my  Hansel.    He  refused 
To  tell  if  any  of  his  countrymen 
Were  hidden  thereabout.     Fifty  yards  on 
We  ran  into  an  ambush.     Well,  of  course 
We  shot  him — little  fool!     Poor  little  fool! 
Thinking  himself  a  hero  as  he  stood 
Facing  our  guns,  so  little  and  so  young 
Against  the  sunny  vineyard-green,  I  thought 
What  wasted  courage !  for  the  child  was  brave, 
Fool  as  he  was.    The  pity     . 

Here  there  came 
A  sudden  shrapnel,  and  the  writing  stopped.     . 

Did  I  write  that?    O  God — did  I  write  that? 

Mine — they  were  mine,  the  folly  and  the  waste. 

Now  the  keen  edge  of  death  has  cut  away 

The  eyelids  of  my  soul  and  I  must  bear 

The  perfect  understanding  of  the  dead. 

Now  that  I  know  myself  as  I  am  known, 

How  shall  my  soul  endure  Eternity? 

God,  God,  if  there  be  pity  left  for  me, 

Send  to  my  son  the  child  that  I  despised 

A  messenger  to  burn  into  his  soul 

While  still  he  lives,  the  truth  I  died  to  learn! 


84 


DESTROYERS 

"KLAXON" 
IN  BLACKWOODS  MAGAZINE 

"THROUGH  the  dark  night 
•*•    And  the  fury  of  battle 
Pass  the  destroyers  in  showers  of  spray. 
As  the  Wolf-pack  to  the  flank  of  the  cattle, 
We  shall  close  in  on  them — shadows  of  gray. 

In  from  ahead, 

Through  shell-flashes  red, 
We  shall  come  down  to  them,  after  the  Day, 

Whistle  and  crash 

Of  salvo  and  volley 
Round  us  and  into  us  as  we  attack 
Light  on  our  target  they'll  flash  in  their  folly, 
Splitting  our  ears  with  shrapnel-crack. 

Fire  as  they  will, 

We'll  come  to  them  still, 
Roar  as  they  may  at  us — Back — Go  Back! 

White  though  the  sea 

To  the  shell-splashes  foaming, 
We  shall  be  there  at  the  death  of  the  Hun. 
Only  we  pray  for  a  star  in  the  gloaming 
(Light  for  torpedoes  and  none  for  a  gun). 

Lord — of  Thy  Grace 

Make  it  a  race, 
Over  the  sea  with  the  night  to  run. 


NINETEEN-SEVENTEEN 

SUSAN  HOOKER  WHITMAN 
IN  THE  KANSAS  CITY  STAR 

TT  is  long  since  knighthood  was  in  flower, 

There  are  no  men  today  who  tower 
Above  their  kind — the  knights  are  dust, 
Their  names  forgot,  their  good  swords  rust," 
We  idly  say.     And  yet,  in  truth — 
The  brave  soul  has  eternal  youth, 
Like  the  great  lighthouse  rising  free, 
Whose  far-flung  beams  guide  ships  at  sea, 
God  lifts  above  his  fellow  man 
A  steadfast  soul  to  dare  and  plan, 
A  king  of  men,  by  right  divine, 
Who  in  his  forehead  bears  the  sign — 
He  walks  along  the  city  street; 
Unknowing,  in  the  fields  we  meet 
A  modern  knight  in  whose  hand  lies 
A  mighty  Nation's  destinies. 

Then  say  no  more,  the  knights  are  gone; 
Honor  and  Truth  and  Right  live  on, 
And  men  today  would  keep  the  bridge 
Horatius  kept — from  rocky  ridge 
Heroic  Youth  would  still  fling  down 
His  horse,  himself,  to  save  the  town. 

Columbia  calls! 

Off  with  your  hats  and  lift  them  high, 
Our  own,  our  sons  are  passing  by. 


86 


THE  SILENT  ARMY. 

IAN  ADANAC 
IN  THE  MONTREAL  DAILY  STAR 

"VTO  bugle  is  blown,  no  roll  of  drums, 

No  sound  of  an  army  marching. 
No  banners  wave  high,  no  battle-cry 
Comes  from  the  war-worn  fields  where  they  lie, 
The  blue  sky  overarching. 
The  call  sounds  clearer  than  the  bugle  call 
From  this  silent,  dreamless  army. 
"No  cowards  were  we,  when  we  heard  the  call, 
For  freedom  we  grudged  not  to  give  our  all," 
Is  the  call  from  the  silent  army. 

Hushed  and  quiet  and  still  they  lie, 

This  silent,  dreamless  army, 

While  living  comrades  spring  to  their  side, 

And  the  bugle-call  and  the  battle-cry 

Are  heard  as  dreamer  and  dreamless  lie 

Under  the  stars  of  the  arching  sky, 

The  men  who  have  heard  from  the  men  who  have  died 

The  call  of  the  silent  army. 

THE  SOURCE  OF  NEWS 

FROM  THE  NEEDLE 

A  BSOLUTE  knowledge  I  have  none, 
But  my  aunt's  washerwoman's  son 
Heard  a  policeman  on  his  beat 
Say  to  a  laborer  in  the  street 
That  he  had  a  letter  just  last  week, 
Written  in  the  finest  Greek, 

From  a  Chinese  coolie  in  Timbuctoo, 
Who  said  the  niggers  in  Cuba  knew 


87 


Of  a  colored  man  in  a  Texas  town 

Who  got  it  straight  from  a  circus  clown, 
That  a  man  in  Klondike  heard  the  news 
From  a  gang  of  South  American  Jews, 

About  somebody  in  Bamboo 

Who  heard  a  man  who  claimed  he  knew 
Of  a  swell  society  female  rake 
Whose  mother-in-law  will  undertake 

To  prove  that  her  husband's  sister's  niece 

Has  stated  in  a  printed  piece 

That  she  has  a  son  who  has  a  friend 
Who  knows  when  the  war  is  going  to  end. 


TO  MY  SON 

A    poem,    anonymous,    sent    to   the    Chicago    Evening    Post    by    one 
whose   son's    regiment    was   leaving   for   France. 

Y  son,  at  last  the  fateful  day  has  come 

For  us  to  part.     The  hours  have  nearly  run. 
May  God  return  you  safe  to  land  and  home  ; 
Yet,  what  God  wills,  so  may  His  will  be  done. 

Draw  tight  the  belt  about  your  slender  frame ; 

Flash  blue  your  eyes!     Hold  high  your  proud  young 

head! 
Today  you  march  in  Liberty's  fair  name, 

To  save  the  line  enriched  by  France's  dead ! 

i  would  not  it  were  otherwise.  And  yet 

'Tis  hard  to  speed  your  marching  forth,  my  son! 

'Tis  doubly  hard  to  live  without  regret 
For  love  unsaid,  and  kindnesses  undone. 


But  would  the  chance  were  mine  with  you  to  stand 
Upon  those  shores  and  see  our  flag  unfurled! 

To  fight  on  France's  brave,  unconquered  land 
With  Liberty's  great  sword  for  all  the  world! 

Beyond  the  waves,  my  son,  the  siren  calls, 
The  sky  is  black  and  Fastnet  lies  abreast ;  • 

A  signal  rocket  flings  its  stars  and  falls 

Across  the  night  to  welcome  England's  guest. 

When  mid  the  scud  you  see  the  Cornish  lights, 

And  through  the  mist  you  hear  faint  Devon  chimes, 

Thank  God  for  memories  of  those  other  nights 
And  days  on  other  ships  in  happier  times. 

Perhaps  you'll  stand  within  the  pillared  nave 
And  .aisles  where  colored  sundust  falls,  and  see 

Old  Canterbury  Church  where  Becket  gave 
His  life's  best  blood  for  England's  liberty! 

Same  night  you'll  walk,  perhaps,  on  Salisbury  plain; 

Above  Stonehenge  the  Druid's  stars  still  sleep, 
And  on  the  turf  within  the  circled  fane 

Beneath  the  autumn  moon  still  lie  the  sheep. 

And  if  you  march  beside  some  Kentish  hedge, 

And  blackberries  hang  thick  clustered  o'er  the  ways, 

Pluck  down  a  branch!     Rest  by  the  road's  brown  edge; 
Eat!    Nor  forget  our  last  vacation  days! 

And  then  the  trench  in  battle-scarred  Lorraine; 

The  town  half  burned  but  held  in  spite  of  hell; 
The  bridge  twice  taken,  lost,  and  won  again  ; 

The  cratered  glacis  ripped  with  mine  and  shell. 


89 


The  leafless  trees,  bare-branched  in  spite  of  June; 

The  sodden  road,  the  desolated  plain; 
The  mateless  birds,  the  season  out  of  tune; 

Fair  France,  at  bay,  is  calling  through  her  pain. 

Oh,  son  !    My  son !    God  keep  you  safe  and  free — 
Our  flag  and  you!    But  if  the  hour  must  come 

To  choose  at  last  'twixt  self  and  liberty — 

We'll  close  our  eyes!    So  let  God's  will  be  done! 


EASTER-EGGS 

REGINALD  WRIGHT   KAUFFMAN 

From  this  author's  "Our  Navy  at  Work,"  published  by  the  Bobbs- 
Merrill  Co.  In  1917,  our  Government  took  over  a  large  number  of 
pleasure-yachts,  fitted  them  with  a  few  light  guns  and  depth-charges 
and  sent  them  into  French  waters  to  hunt  submarines.  They  were 
variously  known  as  "The  Suicide  Fleet"  and  "Easter-Eggs."  Mr.  Kauff- 
man  spent  some  time  at  sea  with  them.  Permission  to  reproduce  in 
this  book. 

>J  OW,  Mr.  Wall  of  Wall  St.,  he  built  himself  a  yacht, 
And  he  built  that  yacht  for  comfort  and  for  speed ; 
He  didn't  mean  that  it  should  go 
Beyond  a  hundred  miles  or  so; 
He  wanted  something  made  for  show, 
Where  he  could  drink  and  feed. 

Then  Uncle  Sam'l  went  to  war  and  hadn't  any  boats, 
Or  not  enough  to  guard  the  stormy  green, 

And  so  he  said  to  Mr.  Wall: 

"I'll  take  your  six-feet-over-all 

And  set  it  out  to  get  the  call 
Upon  the  submarine." 

"A  cruising-fighter  ?     Never!"      (The  experts  chorused 

that.) 

"She'll  sink  before  she's  half-way  out  to  France"; 
But  Sam  cut  out  her  bathtubs  white, 
He  painted  her  a  perfect  fright 
And  loaded  her  with  dynamite; 
Says  he:    "I'll  take  a  chance." 


90 

"Good-night!"  said  Wall  of  Wall  St.;  the  experts  said 

it,  too; 

But  Uncle  Sam  was  sot  and  sibylline ; 
His  little  plan,  it  warn't  a  josh : 
Wall's  boat  's  as  dry  's  a  mackintosh  ; 
She  rights,  b'  gum;  what  's  more,  b'  gosh, 
She  gits  the  submarine! 


A  DIRGE 

VICTOR    PEROWNE 
IN  THE  LONDON  TIMES 

'T'HOU  art  no  longer  here, 

No  longer  shall  we  see  thy  face. 
But,  in  that  other  place, 
Where  may  be  heard 
The  roar  of  the  world  rushing  down  the  wantways  of  the 

stars  ; 

And  the  silver  bars 
Of  heaven's  gate 
Shine  soft  and  clear: 
Thou  mayest  wait. 

No  longer  shall  we  see 
Thee  walking  in  the  crowded  streets, 
But  where  the  ocean  of  the  Future  beats 
Against  the  flood-gates  of  the  Present,  swirling  to  this 
earth, 

Another  birth 

Thou  mayest  have; 

Another  Arcady 

May  thee  receive. 

Not  here  thou  dost  remain, 

Thou  art  gone  far  away, 


91 

Where,  at  the  portals  of  the  day, 

The  hours  ever  dance  in  ring,  a  silvern-footed  throng, 

While  time  looks  on, 
And  seraphs  stand 
Choiring  an  endless  strain 
On  either  hand. 

Thou  canst  return  no  more ; 
Not  as  the  happy  time  of  spring 
Comes  after  winter  burgeoning 

On  wood  and  wold  in  folds  of  living  green,  for  thou  art 
dead. 

Our  tears  we  shed 
In  vain,  for  thou 
Dost  pace  another  shore, 
Untroubled  now. 


THE   WOMAN'S    GAME 

AUTHORSHIP  NOT  KNOWN 

"Vj[7AS  there  ever  a  game  we  did  not  share, 

Brother  of  mine? 
Or  a  day  when  I  did  not  play  you  fair, 

Brother  of  mine? 

"As  good  as  a  boy,"  you  used  to  say, 
And  I  was  as  eager  for  the  fray, 
And  as  loath  to  cheat  or  to  run  away, 

Brother  of  mine! 

You  are  playing  the  game  that  is  straight  and  true, 

Brother  of  mine, 
And  I'd  give  my  soul  to  stand  next  to  you, 

Brother  of  mine. 


92 


The  spirit,  indeed,  is  still  the  same ; 
I  would  not  shrink  from  the  battle's  flame, 
Yet  here  I  stay — at  the  woman's  game, 
Brother  of  mine! 

If  the  last  price  must  needs  be  paid, 

Brother  of  mine, 
You  will  go  forward,  unafraid, 

Brother  of  mine. 

Death  can  so  small  a  part  destroy, 
You  will  have  known  the  fuller  joy — 
Ah !  would  that  I  had  been  born  a  boy, 

Brother  of  mine! 


A  FLEMISH  VILLAGE 

H.  A. 
IN   LONDON    SPECTATOR 

is  the  spire  that  slept  for  centuries, 
Whose  image  in  the  water,  calm  and  low, 
Was  mingled  with  the  lilies  green  and  snow, 
And  lost  itself  in  river  mysteries. 
The  church  lies  broken  near  the  fallen  spire  ; 
For  here,  among  these  old  and  human  things 
Death  swept  along  the  street  with  feet  of  fire, 
And  went  upon  his  way  with  moaning  wings. 
Above  the  cluster  of  these  homes  forlorn, 
Where  giant  fleeces  of  the  shells  a.re  rolled, 
O'er  pavements  by  the  kneeling  herdsmen  worn, 
The  wounded  saints  look  out  to  see  their  fold. 

And  silence  follows  fast,  no  evening  peace, 
But  leaden  stillness,  when  the  thunder  wanes, 
Haunting  the  slender  branches  of  the  trees, 
And  settling  low  upon  the  listless  plains. 


93 


FRANCE 


CAPT.   JOSEPH  MEDILL   PATTERSON 

IN   THE  CHICAGO  TRIBUNE 
From    the    French    of    Armentier    Ohanian 

Permission   to   reproduce   in   this   book 

T  WAS  an  exile  from  my  own  country  and  wandered 

over  the  breast  of  the  world  seeking  another  country. 

And  I  came  into  a  land  where  there  was  only  a  long 

spring  and  a  long  autumn,  where  they  did  not  know  the 

deadly  heats  of  our  summers  or  the  mortal  colds  of  our 

mountains.     Among  the  vines  and  sunny  fields  I  saw  the 

people  of  this  land  at  work,  ever  young  of  soul,  smiling, 

loving,  and  kindly. 

I  asked,  "What  is  the  name  of  this  happy  place?" 
And  the  answer  was,  "France  the  voluptuous." 
I  came  to  towns  of  splendid  monuments,  of  harmoni- 
ous buildings,  of  proud  triumphal  arches  of  the  past,  and 
above  always  I  saw  the  spires  of  great  cathedrals  stretch- 
ing toward  the  sky,  as  if  to  seize  upon  the  feet  of  God. 
I  asked,  "What  is  the  name  of  this  marvelous  land?" 
And  the  answer  was,  "France  the  glorious." 
I  advanced  again,  when  I  was  struck  by  the  red  color 
of  a  large  river.     ...    It  was  a  river  of  warm  blood 
that  rolled   down  from  afar  in  thick  and  heavy  waves. 
I  advanced  again.     Before  me  dark  clouds  of  smoke  hid 
the  endless  sky  above  huge  fields  of  warriors  in  battle ; 
when  these  died  smiling  at  death  others  took  their  places, 
singing. 

1  asked,  "What  is  the  name  of  this  chivalrous  land?" 
And  the  answer  was,  "France  the  courageous." 
At  last  I   came  to  an  immense  city,  of  which   I  saw 
neither  the  beginning  nor  the  end,  a  city  full  of  sumptu- 
ous palaces,  of  parks,  and  fountains.     The  sun  glistened 
on  the  marble  of  the  streets  and  kissed  the  serene,  resigned 


94 

faces  of  women  clothed  in  black.  The  chimes  of  churches 
filled  the  air  with  solemn  sounds,  and  words,  until  then 
unknown  to  me,  "Te  Deum,"  came  from  the  throats  of 
thousands  of  thousands. 

With  respect  I  asked,  "What  is  the  name  of  this  land 
that  mourns?" 

And  the  answer  was,  "France  the  victorious." 
I  kissed  the  earth  of  this  land  and  said,  "I  have  found 
my  country,  who  was  an  exile." 


THE  CLERK 

B.    H.    M.    HETHERINGTON 
IN  THE  LONDON  BOOKMAN 

"DERCHED  upon  an  office  stool,  neatly  adding  figures, 

With  cuffs  gone  shiny  and  a  pen  behind  his  ear; 
Deep  in  Liabilities,  Goods  and  Double  Entry, 
So  he  worked  from  year  to  year. 

Diligent  and  careful,  hedged  about  with  figures, 
Given  soul  and  body  to  discount  and  per  cent; 

Bounded  by  the  columns  of  Purchase  Book  and  Journal, 
Soberly  his  moments  went. 

Now  his  pen  has  ceased  from  adding  rows  of  figures,    ' 
Ceased  from  ruling  ledgers  and  entering  amounts: 

Clad  in  sodden  khaki,  with  a  gun  in  Flanders 
He  is  balancing  accounts. 


95 


POILU 


STEUART  M.   EMERY,   A.   E.   F. 
IN   THE   STARS   AND   STRIPES 

The  traditional  friendship  between  the  United  States  and  France 
was  recemented  under  the  fire  of  German  guns.  In  France  they 
celebrated  our  Fourth  of  July ;  in  this  country,  we  celebrated  the 
Fourteenth  of  July,  the  anniversary  of  the  fall  of  the  Bastile.  Yank 
and  Poilu  are  brothers  in  war,  don't  mind  the  languages.  The  inex- 
tinguishable humor  of  France  never  showed  more  quaintly  than  in 
that  word,  "Poilu."  It  means  "unshaven."  More  freely,  "a  man  who 
needs  a  shave."  A  whimsical  comment  upon  the  French  soldier's  way 
of  letting  his  beard  grow  while  he  is  in  the  field.  Those  boys  were  like 
the  English  and  our  own.  They  smiled  at  misery.  They  were  good 
old  sports,  bless  'em! 

"V^OU'RE  a  funny  fellow,  poilu,  in  your  dinky  little  cap 

And  your  war  worn,  faded  uniform  of  blue, 
With  your  multitude  of  haversacks  abulge  from  heel  to 

flap 

And  your  rifle  that  is  most  as  big  as  you. 
You  were  made  for  love  and   laughter,   for  good  wine 

and  merry  song, 

Now  your  sunlit  world  has  sadly  gone  astray, 
And  the  road  today  you  travel  stretches  rough  and  red 

and  long, 
Yet  you  make  it,  petit  soldat,  brave  and  gay. 

Though  you  live  within  the  shadow,  fagged  and  hungry 

half  the  while, 

And  your  days  and  nights  are  racking  in  the  line, 
There  is  nothing  under  heaven  that  can  take  away  your 

smile, 

Oh,  so  wistful,  and  so  patient  and  so  fine. 
You  are  tender  as  a  woman  with  the  tiny  ones  who  crowd 

To  upraise  their  lips  and  for  your  kisses  pout, 
Still,  we'd  hate  to  have  to  face  you  when  the  bugle's 

sounding  loud 
And  your  slim,  steel  sweetheart  Rosalie  is  out. 


96 

You're  devoted  to  mustaches  which  you  twirl  with  such 

an  air 

O'er  a  cigarette  with  nigh  an  inch  to  run, 
And  quite  often  you  are  noticed  in  a  beard  that's  full  of 

hair, 

But  that  heart  of  yours  is  always  twenty-one. 
No,  you  do  not  "parlee  English,"  and  you  find  it  very  hard, 
For  you  want  to  chum  with  us  and  words  you  lack; 
So  you  pat  us  on  the  shoulder  and  say,  "Nous  sommes 

camarades." 
We  are  that,  my  poilu  pal,  to  hell  and  back! 

AUSTRALIA'S    MEN 

DOROTHEA   MACKELLAR 

Miss  Mackellar  is  the  daughter  of  Sir  Charles  Mackellar,  Chairman 
of  the  Bank  of  New  South  Wales.  Acknowledgment  is  due  Dr.  George 
Cooke-Adams,  formerly  an  officer  in  the  Australian  naval  forces,  through 
whose  courtesy  her  verses  are  presented  here. 

HP  HERE  are  some  that  go  for  love  of  a  fight 

And  some  for  love  of  a  land, 
And  some  for  a  dream  of  the  world  set  free 
Which  they  barely  understand. 

A  dream  of  the  world  set  free  from  Hate — 

But  splendidly,  one  and  all, 
Danger  they  drink  as  'twere  wine  of  Life 

And  jest  as  they  reel  and  fall. 

Clean  aims,  rare  faculties,  strength  and  youth, 
They  have  poured  them  freely  forth 

For  the  sake  of  the  sun-steeped  land  they  left 
And  the  far  green  isle  in  the  north. 

What  can  we  do  to  be  worthy  of  them, 
Now  hearts  are  breaking  for  pride? 

Give  comfort  at  least  to  the  wounded  men 
And  the  kin  of  the  man  that  died. 


97 


TANKS 

O.   C.  A.   CHILD 

S,  back  at  home  I  used  to  drive  a  tram ; 
And  Sammy,  there,  he  was  a  driver,  too — 
He  used  to  ride  his  racer — did  Sir  Sam ; 
While  pokey  London  streets  was  all  I  knew. 

But  now,  His  Nibs  and  I,  of  equal  rank, 
Are  chummy  as  the  paper  and  the  wall, 

Each  tooling  of  a  caterpillar  tank, 

Each  waiting  on  the  blest  old  bugle  call. 

Say!   Tanks  are  sport — when  you  get  used  to  them, 
They're  like  a  blooming  railroad,  self-contained ; 

They  lay  their  tracks,  as  you  might  say — pro  tern, 
And  pick  'em  up,  and  there's  good  distance  gained. 

They  roar  across  rough  country  like  a  gale, 
They  lean  against  a  house  and  push  it  down, 

They're  like  a  baby  fortress  under  sail, 
And  antic  as  a  three-ring  circus  clown. 

Sam  says  they're  slow.     They  may  seem  so  to  him — 
They  can't  show  fancy  mile-a-minute  stuff, 

But  when  they  charge,  in  armored  fighting  trim, 
You  bet  the  Germans  find  'em  fast  enough ! 

Now  Sam  and  I  are  waiting,  side  by  side, 
To  steam  across  yon  farm-land  in  the  night ; 

We'll  take  their  blamed  barbed  wire  in  our  stride5 
And  stamp  a  German  trench  line  out  of  sight. 


98 


A   HYMN   OF   FREEDOM 

MARY  PERRY  KING 

IN  COLLIER'S  WEEKLY 
Permission  to  reproduce  in  this  book 

TTNFURL  the  flag  of  Freedom, 

Fling  far  the  bugle  blast ! 
There  comes  a  sound  of  marching 

From  out  the  mighty  past. 
Let  every  peak  and  valley 

Take  up  the  valiant  cry: 
Where,  beautiful  as  morning, 

Our  banner  cuts  the  sky. 

Free  born  to  peace  and  justice, 

We  stand  to  guard  and  save 
The  liberty  of  manhood, 

The  faith  our  fathers  gave. 
Then  soar  aloft,  Old  Glory, 

And  tell  the  waiting  breeze 
No  law  but  Right  and  Mercy 

Shall  rule  the  Seven  Seas. 

No  hate  is  in  our  anger, 

No  vengeance  in  our  wrath, 
We  hold  the  line  of  freedom 

Across  the  tyrant's  path. 
Where'er  oppression  vaunteth 

We  loose  the  sword  once  more 
To  stay  the  feet  of  conquest, 

And  pray  an  end  of  war. 


99 


SWAN  SONGS 

\>f ORE  than  all  the  others  put  together,  the  war  poems 
of  Alan  Seeger,  Lieutenant  Colonel  McCrae,  and 
Lieut.  Rupert  Brooke,  have  touched  and  thrilled  the 
heart  of  America.  They  are  quiet,  earnest,  yet  more 
powerful  than  trumpet  blasts,  for  they  rise  triumphant 
from  great  depths,  and  as  they  sing,  exalt. 

Most  familiar  is  our  own  Alan  Seeger's  "I  Have  a 
Rendezvous  with  Death."  He  was  studying  in  Paris 
when  the  war  broke  out.  In  the  third  week  he  enlisted 
in  the  Foreign  Legion.  Two  arduous  years  later  he 
was  called  on  higher  service.  July  4,  1916,  his  squad 
was  caught  in  an  assault  on  the  village  of  Belloy-en- 
Santerre,  where  the  Germans  received  them  with  the 
fire  of  six  machine  guns.  Seeger  was  severely  wounded, 
but  went  forward  with  the  others,  and  helped  take  the 
place.  Next  morning  he  died.  He  had  kept  the  tryst. 

.Alan  Seeger  was  a  New  York  boy.  He  was  born  in 
that  city  June  22,  1888.  In  his  short  life  he  had  written 
some  twenty  poems.  This  was  his  last.  It  w-js  written 
in  camp,  shortly  before  his  call  came: 

I  HAVE  A  RENDEZVOUS  WITH  DEATH* 

T    HAVE  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
'    At  some  disputed  barricade 
When  Spring  comes  back   with    rustling  shade 
And  apple  blossoms  fill  the  air. 
I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
When  Spring  brings  back  blue  days  and  fair 

*From  "Poems,"  by  Alan  Seeger.  Copyright,  1916,  by  Charles  Scrib 
ner's  Sons,  Publishers,  New  York.     Permission  to  reproduce  in  this  book 


100 


It  may  be  he  shall  take  my  hand 

And  lead  me  into  his  dark  land 

And  close  my  eyes  and  quench  my  breath; 

It  may  be  I  shall  pass  him,  still, 

I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 

On  some  scarred  slope  of  battered  hill, 

When  Spring  comes  round  again  this  year 

And  the  first  meadow  flowers  appear. 

God  knows  'twere  better  to  be  deep 
Pillowed  in  silk  and  scented  down, 
Where  love  throbs  out  in  blissful  sleep, 
Pulse  nigh  to  pulse,  and  breath  to  breath, 
Where  hushed  awakenings  are  dear. 
But  I've  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
At  midnight  in  some  flaming  town, 
When  Spring  trips  north  again  this  year, 
And  I  to  my  pledged  word  am  true. 
I  shall  not  fail  that  rendezvous. 


Lieut.  Col.  John  McCrae  was  a  Canadian  physician 
who  served  in  the  South  African  war  as  an  artilleryman. 
He  was  on  his  way  to  Canada  when  the  war  began  in 
1914,  and  immediately  upon  landing  he  entered  the  Val 
Cartier  training  camp  and  was  commissioned  a  Captain. 
Later  he  joined  the  McGill  Hospital  corps  and  went  with 
it  to  France,  where  he  rose  to  the  rank  of  Lieutenant 
Colonel,  and  died  in  service,  January  28,  1918. 

His  poem,  "In  Flanders'  Fields,"  was  written  on  the 
Flanders  front  in  the  Spring  of  1915.  Its  inspiration  is 
thus  explained  by  Sergeant  Charles  E.  Bisset,  of  the  19th 
Battalion,  1st  Brigade,  Canadian  Infantry: 


"On  the  Flanders  front  in  the  early  Spring  of  1915, 
when  the  war  had  settled  down  to  trench  righting,  two 
of  the  most  noticeable  features  of  the  field  were,  first, 
the  luxuriant  growth  of  red  poppies  appearing  among 
the  graves- of  the  fallen  soldiers,  and  second,  that  only 
one  species  of  bird — the  larks — remained  on  the  field 
during  the  fighting.  As  soon  as  the  cannonading  ceased, 
they  would  rise  in  the  air,  singing." 


IN    FLANDERS     FIELDS 

TN  Flanders'  fields  the  poppies  blow 
Between  the  crosses,  row  on  row, 
That  mark  our  place,  and  in  the  sky 
The  larks,  still  bravely  singing,  fly 
Scarce  heard  amid  the  guns  below. 

We  are  the  Dead!     Short  days  ago 
We  lived,  felt  dawn,  saw  sunset  glow, 
Loved  and  were  loved,  and  now  we  lie 
In  Flanders'  fields. 

Take  up  our  quarrel  with  the  foe! 
To  you  from  failing  hands  we  throw 
The  Torch.     Be  yours  to  hold  it  high ! 
If  ye  break  faith  with  us  who  die 
We  shall  not  sleep,  though  poppies  grow, 
In  Flanders'  fields. 


Rupert  Brooke,  a  brilliant,  impassioned  young  Eng- 
lishman, was  one  of  the  first  to  take  arms  when  Great 
Britain  went  to  war.  He  died  in  the  Dardanelles  expe- 


102 

dition,  April  23,  1915.  A  few  days  before,  he  had  sent 
from  the  /Egean  Sea  to  the  English-speaking  peoples  the 
poem  by  which  he  is  best  known : 

THE    SOLDIER* 

TF  I  should  die,  think  only  this  of  me: 

That  there's  some  corner  of  a  foreign  field 
That  is  for  ever  England.     There  shall  be 

In  that  rich  earth  a  richer  dust  concealed, 
A  dust  whom  England  bore,  shaped,  made  aware, 

Gave  once,  her  flowers  to  love,  her  ways  to  roam, 
,A  body  of  England's  breathing  English  air, 

Washed  by  the  rivers,  blest  by  suns  of  home. 
And  think,  this  heart,  all  evil  shed  away, 

A  pulse  in  the  eternal  mind,  no  less 

Gives  somewhere  back  the  thoughts  by  England  given  ; 
Her  sights  and  sounds;  dreams  happy  as  her  day; 

And  laughter,  learnt  of  friends;  and  gentleness, 

In  hearts  at  peace,  under  an  English  heaven. 

Lieutenant  Brooke  was  a  rare  poet,  having  a  serene 
faith,  a  knowledge  of  life  as  continuous.  His  bent  of 
thought,  the  manner  of  his  feeling,  shine  most  clearly  in 
this  sonnet: 

NOT    WITH    VAIN    TEARS 

with  vain  tears,  wrhen  we're  beyond  the  sun, 
We'll  beat  on  the  substantial  doors,  nor  tread 
Those  dusty  highroads  of  the  aimless  dead, 
Plaintive  for  Earth ;  but  rather  turn  and  run 
Down  some  close-covered  byway  of  the  air, 

*"The  Soldier,"  and  "Not  With  Vain  Tears"  are  from  "The  Col- 
lected Poems  of  Rupert  Brooke,"  published  and  copyright,  1915,  by  John 
Lane  Company,  New  York.  Special  permission  to  reproduce  in  this 
book. 


Some  low,  sweet  alley  between  wind  and  wind, 

Stoop  under  faint  gleams,  thread  the  shadows,  find 
Some  whispering,  ghost-forgotten  nook,  and  there 
Spend  in  pure  converse  our  eternal  day; 

Think  each  in  each,  immediately  wise; 
Learn  all  we  lacked  before;  hear,  know  and  say 

What  this  tumultuous  body  now  denies; 
And  feel,  who  have  laid  our  groping  hands  away; 

And  see,  no  longer  blinded  by  our  eyes. 

All  of  Rupert  Brooke's  work  has  been  collected  and 
issued,  a  rich  though  slender  sheaf.  The  book  is  fervently 
commended  to  people  whose  own  souls  are  in  the  key  that 
responds  to  notes  so  spiritually  fine  and  clear  as  those 
he  sounds  in  all  his  lines. 


"But  a  Short  Time  to  Live"  was  written  by  Serg't 
Leslie  Coulson,  whose  "little  hour"  came  to  an  end  at 
Arras,  in  France,  October  7,  1916: 

BUT  A    SHORT  TIME   TO   LIVE 

(~)UR  little  hour — how  swift  it  flies— 

When  poppies  flare  and  lilies  smile ; 
How  soon  the  fleeting  minute  dies, 

Leaving  us  but  a  little  while 
To  dream  our  dreams,  to  sing  our  song, 

To  pick  the  fruit,  to  pluck  the  flower. 
The  gods — they  do  not  give  us  long — 

One  little  hour. 


Our  little  hour — how  soon  it  dies; 
How  short  a  time  to  tell  our  beads, 


104 

To  chant  our  feeble  litanies, 

To  think  sweet  thoughts,  to  do  good  deeds. 
The  altar  lights  grow  pale  and  dim, 

The  bells  hang  silent  in  the  tower — 
So  passes  with  the  dying  hymn 

Our  little  hour. 

These  songs,  with  others  that  have  lilted  so  bravely, 
so  gravely,  through  the  world's  most  bitter  years  of  tra- 
vail, will  live  long  in  literature,  with  many  more  as 
strong  or  as  sweet.  Had  all  the  writers  lived,  we  would 
have  had  a  wealth  of  splendid  gifts  from  them,  espe- 
cially, maybe,  from  that  "poor  bird-hearted  singer  of 
a  day,"  Francis  Ledwidge,  who  fell  in  battle  in  Flan- 
ders, July  31,  1917.  Ledwidge  was  discovered  by  Lord 
Dunsany,  himself  a  soldier-poet  and  a  patron  of  poets. 
He  was  lance  corporal  in  Lord  Dunsany's  company  in 
the  5th  Battalion  of  the  Royal  Inniskillen  Fusileers. 
He  wrote  quite  touchingly  to  a  friend  shortly  before 
the  end,  "I  mean  to  do  something  great  if  I  am  spared, 
but  out  here  one  may  at  any  moment  be  hurled  out 
of  life."  There  is  no  doubt  he  would  have  done  "some- 
thing great,"  for  here  is  a  swan  song  not  unworthy  to  bear 
his  name  to  later  times: 

THE    LOST   ONES 

COMEWHERE  is  music  from  the  linnets'  bills, 

And  through  the  sunny  flowers  the  bee  wings  drone, 
And  white  bells  of  convolvulus  on  hills 

Of  quiet  May  make  silent  ringing  blown 
Hither  and  thither  by  the  wind  of  showers, 

And  somewhere  all  the  wandering  birds  have  flown; 


105 


And  the  brown  breath  of  Autumn  chills  the  flowers. 
But  where  are  all  the  loves  of  long  ago? 

O  little  twilight  ship  blown  up  the  tide, 
Where  are  the  faces  laughing  in  the  glow 

Of  morning  years,  the  lost  ones  scattered  wide? 
Give  me  your  hand,  O  brother;  let  us  go 

Crying   about   the   dark   for  those  who   died. 


THE  FLAG  SPEAKS 

WALTER  E.  PECK 
IN  THE  HAMILTON  LITERARY  MAGAZINE 

IBBONS  of  white  in  the  flag  of  our  land, 

Say,  shall  we  live  in  fear? 
Speak!     For  I  wait  for  the  word  from  your  lips 
Wet  with  the  brine  of  the  sea-going  ships; 
Speak!    Shall  we  cringe  'neath  an  Attila's  whips? 
Speak !    For  I  wait  to  hear ! 

"This  is  our  word,"  said  the  ribbons  of  white ; 
"This  is  the  course  to  steer — 
Peace  is  our  haven  for  foul  or  for  fair — 
Won  as  a  maiden  and  kept  as  an  heir, 
Peace  with  the  sunlight  of  God  on  her  hair, 
Peace,  with  an  honor  clear!" 

Ribbons  of  red  in  the  flag  of  our  land, 

Bought  for  a  price  full  dear, 

Speak!    For  'tis  Man  that  is  asking  Man, 

Churl  in  the  centuries'  caravan, 

Speak!    For  he  waits  for  your  bold  "I  can!'* 

Speak!    For  he  waits  to  hear! 


106 


"This  is  our  word,"  said  the  ribbons  of  red, 
Slowly,  with  gaze  austere, 
"War  if  we  must  in  humanity's  name, 
Shielding  a  sister  from  sorrow  and  shame; 
War  upon  beasts  with  the  sword  and  with  flame! 
War — till  the  Judge  appear!" 

Stars  in  a  field  of  the  sky's  own  blue, 
Light  of  a  midnight  year, 
Speak!    For  the  spirit  of  Man  awakes, 
Shoulders  the  cross,  and  his  couch  forsakes, 
Whispers  a  prayer,  and  the  long  way  takes, 
Speak!    For  he  wTaits  to  hear! 

"This  is  our  word,"  said  a  star  of  white, 

Set  in  the  silken  mere, 

"Right  against  Might  on  the  land,  on  the  sea! 

Little  and  Great  are  the  same  to  me! 

Only  for  Truth  and  for  Liberty 

Strike!    For  the  hour  is  here!" 


THE  CALL 

(FRANCE,  AUGUST  IST,  1914) 
ROBERT  W.   SERVICE 

From  "Rhymes  of  a  Red  Cross  Man,"  a  book  of  fine  poems  by 
Mr.  Service.  Published  and  copyright,  1916,  by  Barse  &  Hopkins,  New 
York.  Special  permission  to  insert  in  this  book. 

1CAR  and  near,  high  and  clear, 

1     Hark  to  the  call  of  War! 
Over  the  gorse  and  the  golden  dells, 
Ringing  and  swinging  of  clamorous  bells, 
Praying  and  saying  of  wild  farewells: 
'War!    War!    War! 


107 


High  and  low,  all  must  go: 

Hark  to  the  shout  of  War! 
Leave  to  the  women  the  harvest  yield; 
Gird  ye,  men,  for  the  sinister  field ; 
A  sabre  instead  of  a  scythe  to  wield. 

War!     Red  war! 

Rich  and  poor,  lord  and  boor, 

Hark  to  the  blast  of  War! 
Tinker  and  tailor  and  millionaire, 
Actor  in  triumph  and  priest  in  prayer, 
Comrades  now  in  the  hell  out  there, 

Sweep  to  the  fire  of  War! 

Prince  and  page,  sot  and  sage, 

Hark  to  the  roar  of  War! 
Poet,  professor  and  circus  clown, 
Chimney-sweeper  and  fop  o'  the  town, 
Into  the  pot  and  be  melted  down 

Into  the  pot  of  War! 

Women  all,  hear  the  call, 

The  pitiless  call  of  War! 
Look  your  last  on  your  dearest  ones, 
Brothers  and  husbands,  fathers,  sons: 
Swift  they  go  to  the  ravenous  guns, 

The  gluttonous  guns  of  War! 

Everywhere  thrill  the  air 

The  maniac  bells  of  War! 
There  will  be  little  of  sleeping  tonight; 
There  will  be  wailing  and  weeping  tonight; 
Death's  red  sickle  is  reaping  tonight: 

War!    War!    War! 


108 


THE  CRUTCHES'  TUNE 

ELIZABETH   R.   STONER 
IN   EVERYBODY'S   MAGAZINE 

T^OWN  the  street,  with  a  lilting  swing1, 
^  Each  so  bright  that  never  a  thing 
Seemed  to  harass,  so  proud  were  they; 
One  leg  gone,  but  their  hearts  were  gay. 

Clickety  clack,  went  the  crutches'  tune. 
God!     How  can  they  be  brave  so  soon! 
Brave,  when   I  can  not  keep  back  the  tears, 
Thinking  ahead  of  the  crippled  years. 

With  a  rhythmic  swing  they  passed  me  by, 

And  although,  at  first,  I  wanted 'to  cry, 

I  didn't,  because  on  each  smiling  face 

Was  the  peace  of  God  and  the  pride  of  race. 

And  the  splendid  pair,  each  with  one  leg  gone, 
Swung  out  of  sight  to  the  crutches'  song. 
And  I  thought  I  would  give  all  my  future  joys 
To  feel  just  like  those  Canadian  boys. 

All  night  long,  like  an  ancient  rune, 
Rang  through  my  dreams  the  crutches'  tune. 
I  shall  never  forget,  though  I'm  old  and  gray, 
The  song  that  the  crutches  sang  that  day. 


109 


THE  ANXIOUS  DEAD 

LIEUT.  COL.  JOHN  McCRAE 
IN  THE  LONDON  SPECTATOR 

GUNS,  fall  silent  till  the  dead  men  hear 
Above  their  heads  the  legions  pressing  on! 
(These  fought  their  fight  in  time  of  bitter  fear 
And  died  not  knowing  how  the  day  had  gone.) 

O  flashing  muzzles,  pause  and  let  them  see 
The  coming  dawn  that  streaks  the  sky  afar! 

Then  let  your  mighty  chorus  witness  be 

To  them,  and  Caesar,  that  we  still  make  war. 

Tell  them,  O  guns,  that  we  have  heard  their  call ; 

That  we  have  sworn  and  will  not  turn  aside ; 
That  we  will  onward  till  we  win  or  fall ; 

That  we  will  keep  the  faith  for  which  they  died. 

Bid  them  be  patient,  and  some  day,  anon, 

They  shall  feel  earth  enwrapt  in  silence  deep — 

Shall  greet  in  wonderment  the  quiet  dawn, 
And  in  content  may  turn  them  to  their  sleep. 


110 

HOME 

REGINALD  WRIGHT  KAUFFMAN 

From  Mr.  Kauffman's  book  of  poems,  "Little  Old  Belgium." 
Henry  Altemus  Company,  Publishers,  Philadelphia.  Copyright,  1914. 
Reproduced  in  this  book  by  special  permission. 

At  a  pillaged  hamlet  near  Termonde,  I  asked  a  dying 
peasant  woman  into  which  of  the  houses  still  standing 
I  should  assist  her — which  was  her  home?  She  pressed 
a  withered  hand  to  her  bayonet-pierced  side  and  an- 
swered :  "The  Germans  have  taken  one  home  from  me ; 
but,  without  knowing  it,  they  have  given  me  another.  I 
am  going  there  now." 

"H/f  Y  house  that  I  so  soon  shall  own 

Is  builded  in  a  silent  place, 
Not  uncompanioned  or  alone, 

But  shared  by  almost  all  my  race; 
No  landscape  from  its  windows  rolls 

A  picture  of  the  earth's  increase; 
But,  oh,  for  all  our  stricken  souls, 

Within  its  sturdy  walls  is — Peace. 

The  other  house  I  used  to  love 

Before  they  burnt  it  overhead  ; 
My  slaughtered  man;  the  memory  of 

Our  daughter  screaming  in  the  red 
Embrace  of  Uhlans  at  my  door, 

Her  shrieks  all  silenced  by  their  shout 
Of  drunken  fury — that  was  war, 

And  my  new  home  will  shut  it  out. 

I  shall  not  see  the  German  hands 

That  tear  the  baby  from  the  breast; 

I  shall  not  hear  the  plundering  bands 
Laughing  at  murder:  I  shall  rest. 

There  Joy  shall  never  riot  in 
Nor  robber  sorrow  find  his  way; 


Ill 


Those  shutters  bar  the  call  of  Sin, 
And   Duty  has  no   debt  to  pay. 

So  much  I  shall  be  heedless  of, 

Serene,  secure,  dispassionate; 
There  is  not  anything  to  love; 

There  is  not  anything  to  hate. 
So  in  my  house  I  shall  forget 

All  of  the  orgies  and  the  strife, 
And  find,  past  memory  and  regret, 

The  Resurrection  and  the  Life. 


TO    HAPPIER    DAYS 

MABEL  McELLIOTT 
IN  THE  CHICAGO  SUNDAY  TRIBUNE 

A  GAINST  the  shabby  house  I   pass  each  day 
'^(The  town  is  strange,  and  all  so  new  to  see) 
Pink  hollyhocks  made  friendly  sport  of  me, 
With  nod  and  smile  and  endless  courtesy 
Enlive   the   lonely  sameness  of   my  way. 
Slim  little  maids  in  rosy  morning  frocks, 
They  make  a  splash  of  color  on  the  gray— 
The  sun  so  bright — a  pity  not  to  play, 
But  this  old  world  is  sadly  work-a-day, 
And  I  must  hasten  on,  my  hollyhocks! 

I  like  to  think  that  somewhere,  overseas, 

Perhaps  in  some  neglected  garden  place, 

Shy  flowers  from  home  lean  out  with  wayward  grace — 

Blue  iris  and  the  valley  lilies'  lace — 

Reminding  them  of  happier  times  than  these,  .  .  . 

Of  happy  times  that  are  so  soon  to  be, 

When  they  come  marching  home  to  us — our  men — 

The  world's  work  done,  the  land  made  clean  again! 


112 


YOUR  LAD,  AND  MY  LAD 

RANDALL  PARRISH 
IN  THE  CHICAGO  TRIBUNE 

1T\OWN  toward  the  deep-blue  water,  marching  to  throb 

of  drum, 

From  city  street  and  country  lane  the  lines  of  khaki  come  ; 
The  rumbling  guns,   the  sturdy  tread,  are  full  of  grim 

appeal, 
While  rays  of  western  sunshine  flash  back  from  burnished 

steel. 
With    eager   eyes   and    cheeks   aflame    the   serried    ranks 

advance ; 
And  your  dear  lad,  and  my  dear  lad,  are  on  their  way  to 

France. 

A  sob  clings  choking  in  the  throat,  as  file  on  file  sweep  by, 
Between   those  cheering  multitudes,    to  where   the   great 

ships  lie; 
The   batteries   halt,    the    columns   wheel,    to    clear-toned 

bugle-call. 
With    shoulders   squared    and    faces    front   they   stand    a 

khaki  wall. 
Tears  shine  on  every  watcher's  cheek,  love  speaks  in  every 

glance ; 
For  your  dear  lad,  and  my  dear  lad,  are  on  their  way  to 

France. 

Before  them,  through  a  mist  of  years,  in  soldier  buff  or 

blue, 
Brave   comrades   from   a   thousand   fields   watch   now   in 

proud  review ; 
The  same  old  Flag,  the  same  old  Faith, — the  Freedom 

of  the  World— 


113 

Spells  Duty  in  those  flapping  folds  above  long  ranks  un- 
furled. 

Strong  are  the  hearts  which  bear  along  Democracy's 
advance, 

As  your  dear  lad,  and  my  dear  lad-,  go  on  their  way  to 
France. 

The  word  rings  out ;  a  million  feet  tramp  forward  on  the 
road, 

Along  that  path  of  sacrifice  o'er  which  their  fathers 
strode. 

With  eager  eyes  and  cheeks  aflame,  with  cheers  on  smil- 
ing lips, 

These  fighting  men  of  '17  move  onward  to  their  ships. 

Nor  even  love  may  hold  them  back,  nor  halt  that  stern 
advance, 

As  your  dear  lad,  and  my  dear  lad,  go  on  their  way  to 
France. 


"AS  SHE  IS  SPOKE" 

BOSTON    TRANSCRIPT 

T'VE  heard  a  half  a  dozen  times 

1     Folks  call  it  Reims. 

That  isn't  right,  though,  so  it  seems, 

Perhaps  it's  Reims. 
Poor  city  ruined  now  by  flames — 

Can  it  be  Reims? — 
That  once  was  one  of  France's  gems — 

More  likely  Reims. 
I'll  get  it  right  sometime,  perchance ; 

I'm  told  it's  Reims. 


114 


THE    SPIRES    OF    OXFORD 

(SEEN   FROM   THE  TRAIN) 
WINIFRED   M.   LETTS 

From  "The  Spires  of  Oxford  and  Other  Poems,"  by  Winifred  M. 
Letts,  published  and  copyright,  1917,  by  E.  P.  Dutton  &  Company,  New 
York.  Special  permission  to  reproduce  in  this  book. 

T  SAW  the  spires  of  Oxford 

As  I  was  passing  by, 
The  gray  spires  of  Oxford 
Against  a  pearl-gray  sky. 
My  heart  was  with  the  Oxford  men 
Who  went  abroad  to  die. 

The  years  go  fast  in  Oxford, 

The  golden  years  and  gay, 

The  hoary  colleges  look  down 

On  careless  boys  at  play. 

But  when  the  bugles  sounded — War! 

They  put  their  games  away. 

They  left  the  peaceful  river, 
The  cricket  field,   the  quad, 
The  shaven  lawns  of  Oxford 
To  seek  a  bloody  sod — 
They  gave  their  merry  youth  away 
For  country  and  for  God. 

God  rest  you,  happy  gentlemen, 
Who  laid  your  good  lives  down, 
Who  took  the  khaki  and  the  gun 
Instead  of  cap  and  gown. 
God  bring  you  to  a  fairer  place 
Than  even  Oxford  town. 


115 


THE    GENTLEMEN    OF   OXFORD 

NORAH  M.  HOLLAND 

IN  EVERYWOMAN'S  WORLD 

'T'HE  sunny  streets  of  Oxford 

Are  lying  still  and  bare. 
No  sound  of  voice  or  laughter 

Rings  through  the  golden  air; 
And,  chiming  from  her  belfry, 

No  longer  Christchurch  calls 
The  eager,  boyish  faces 

To  gather  in  her  halls. 

The  colleges  are  empty. 

Only  the  sun  and  wind 
Make  merry  in  the  places 

The  lads  have  left  behind. 
But,  when  the  trooping  shadows 

Have  put  the  day  to  flight, 
The  Gentlemen  of  Oxford 

Come  homing  through  the  night. 

From  France  they  come,  and  Flanders, 

From  Mons,  and  Marne  and  Aisne. 
From  Greece  and  from  Gallipoli 

They  come  to  her  again  ; 
From  the  North  Sea's  grey  waters, 

From  many  a  grave  unknown, 
The  Gentlemen  of  Oxford 

Come  back  to  claim  their  own. 

The  dark  is  full  of  laughter, 
Boy  laughter,  glad  and  young. 

They  tell  the  old-time  stories, 
The  old-time  songs  are  sung; 


116 


They  linger  in  her  cloisters, 
They  throng  her  dewy  meads, 

Till  Isis  hears  their  calling 
And  laughs  among  her  reeds. 

But,  when  the  east  is  whitening 

To  greet  the  rising  sun, 
And  slowly,  over  Carfax, 

The  stars  fade,  one  by  one, 
Then,  when  the  dawn-wind  whispers 

Along  the  Isis  shore, 
The  Gentlemen  of  Oxford 

Must  seek  their  graves  once  more. 

WITH   THE    SAME    PRIDE 

THEODOSIA  GARRISON 

IN  EVERYBODY'S  MAGAZINE 

Permission  to.  rep  reduce  in  this  book 

("WE  star  for  all  she  had, 

And  in  her  heart 
One  wound — yet  is  she  glad 

For  all  its  smart 
As  they  are  glad  who  bear 

The  pangs  of  birth 
That  a  new  soul  and  fair 

May  come  to  earth, 
Seeing  she,  too,  was  one 

Who  from  Death's  strife 
Granted  her  first-born  son 

Proudly  to  Life. 
Now  with  that  very  faith 

Life  justified, 
She  grants  a  son  to  Death 

With  the  same  pride. 


117 


ACELDAMA 

DR.    GEORGE    F.    BUTLER 
IN   THE  SCOOP,  THE  CHICAGO  PRESS  CLUB'S  MAGAZINE 

CTILL  breaks  the  Holy  morn,  to  soothe  the  care 

And  labor  of  the  world ;  hushed  is  the  grove, 
And  overhead  the  vireo's  note  of  love 

Floats  like  a  joyful  utterance  of  prayer. 

Soft  insect  murmurs  fill  the  enchanted  air. 
Into  a  fairer  day  earth  seems  to  move, 
And  statelier  thoughts  lift  mortal  sense  above 

Life's  sin  and  pain ;  the  sorrow  and  despair. 

But  hark!    where  now  the  noonday  beams  are  shed 
In  sorrowing  Europe,  trembles  a  sound 
Of  thunder,  and  the  land  with  dews  of  blood 

Is  drenched;  while  o'er  the  dying  and  the  dead 

Fate  turns  to  weep  o'er  every  pleading  wound — 
Can  earth  o'ercome  the  evil  with  the  good? 

But  yesterday  two  monarchs,  held  in  check 

Like  bloodhounds  in  the  leash,  broke  forth  before 
The  eyes  of  Christendom,  and  in  the  roar 
Of  lurid  conflict  heard  not  the  wild  shriek 
Of  outraged  millions — now  again  the  wreck 
Of  crushed  humanity  must  strew  death's  shore 
With  ghastly  ruin  crying  evermore, 
"Shame!   Wretch  of  mortal  form  and  vulture's  beak- 
To  ask  God's  aid  and  Christ's!    O,  hour  of  woe! 
Cover,  O  night  of  ages,  the  dread  birth 
Of  man's  Imperial  hate!  -Let  kings  go  down 
That  peoples  may  aspire  and  live  and  own 
A  holier  stature,   and   this   crimsoned   earth 
Drink  the  pure  light  of  Freedom's  afterglow!" 

Sunday  in  August,  1914 


118 


THE  LONELY  GARDEN 

EDGAR  A.   GUEST 

Copyright,    1918,  by  Edgar  A.   Guest.     Special  permission  to  repro- 
duce in   this  book. 

T  WONDER  what  the  trees  will  say, 

The  trees  that  used  to  share  his  play, 
An'  knew  him  as  the  little  lad 
Who  used  to  wander  with  his  dad. 
They've  watched  him  grow  from  year  to  year 
Since  first  the  good  Lord  sent  him  here; 
This  shag-bark  hick'ry,  many  a  time, 
The  little  fellow  tried  t'  climb ; 
An'  never  a  spring  has  come  but  he 
Has  called  upon  his  favorite  tree. 
I  wonder  what  they  all  will  say 
When  they  are  told  he's  marched  away. 

I  wonder  what  the  birds  will  say, 
The  swallow  an'  the  chatterin'  jay, 
The  robin  an'  the  kildeer,  too. 
For  every  one  o'  them  he  knew, 
An'  every  one  o'  them  knew  him, 
Waited  each  spring  t'  tell  him  all 
They'd  done  and  seen  since  'way  last  fall. 
He  was  the  first  to  greet  'em  here 
An'  hoppin'  there  from  limb  t'  limb, 
As  they  returned  from  year  t'  year; 
An'  now  I  wonder  what  they'll  say 
When  they  are  told  he's  marched  away. 

I  wonder  how  the  roses  there 
Will  get  along  without  his  care, 
An'  how  the  lilac  bush  will  face 


119 


The  loneliness  about  th'  place, 
For  ev'ry  spring  an'  summer  he 
Has  been  the  chum  o'  plant  an'  tree, 
An'  every  livin'  thing  has  known 
A  comradeship  that's  finer  grown 
By  havin'  him  from  year  t'  year. 
Now  very  soon  they'll  all  be  here, 
An'  I'm  wonderin'  what  they'll  say 
When  they  find  out  he's  marched  away. 


THE  BRITISH  ARMY  OF   1914 

ALFRED  W.  POLLARD 

IN  WESTMINSTER  GAZETTE 

ET  us  praise  God  for  the  Dead:  the  Dead  who  died 

in  our  cause. 
They  went  forth  a  little  army :  all  its  men  were  as  true  as 

steel. 
The  hordes  of  the  enemy  were  hurled  against  them:  they 

fell  back,  but  their  hearts  failed  not. 
They  went  forward  again  and  held  their  ground:  though 

their  foes  were  as  five  to  one. 
They  gave  time  for  our  host  to  muster:  the  most  of  the 

men  who  never  thought  to  fight. 
A  great  host  and  a  mighty:  worthy  of  the  men  who  died 

to  gain  them  time. 
Let  us  praise  God  for  these  men:  let  us  remember  them 

before  Him  all  our  days. 
Let  us  care  for  the  widows  and  orphans :  and  for  the  men 

who  came  home  maimed. 
Truly  God  has  been  with  us:  these  things  were  not  done 

without  His  help. 
O   Lord  our  God,  be  Thou  still  our  helper:   make  us 

worthy  of  those  who  died. 


120 


MORITURI   TE    SALUTANT 

P.  H.  B.  L. 
IN  THE  LONDON  SPECTATOR 

TN  this  last  hour,  before  the  bugles  blare 

The  summons  of  the  dawn,  we  turn  again 
To  you,  dear  country,  you  whom  unaware, 
Through  summer  years  of  idle  selfishness, 
We  still  have  loved — who  loved  us  none  the  less, 
Knowing  the  destined  hour  \vould  find  us  men. 

O  thrill  and  laughter  of  the  busy  town! 

O  flower  valleys,  trees  against  the  skies, 

Wild  moor  and  woodland,  glade  and  sweeping  down, 

O  land  of  our  desire!  like  men  asleep 

We  have  let  pass  the  years,  nor  felt  you  creep 

So  close  into  our  hearts'  dear  sanctities. 

So,  we  are  dreamers;  but  our  dreams  are  cast 
Henceforward  in  a  more  heroic  mold; 
We  have  kept  faith  with  our  immortal  past. 
Knights — we  have  found  the  lady  of  our  love; 
Minstrels — have  heard  great  harmonies  above 
The  lyrics  that  enraptured  us  of  old. 

The  dawn's  aglow  with  luster  of  the  sun 
O  love,  O  burning  passion,  that  has  made 
Our  day  illustrious  till  its  hours  are  done — 
Fire  our  dull  hearts,  that,  in  our  sun's  eclipse, 
When  Death  stoops  low  to  kiss  us  on  the  lips, 
He  still  may  find  us  singing,  unafraid. 

One  thing  we  know,  that  love  so  greatly  spent 
Dies  not  when  lovers  die:  From  hand  to  hand 
We  pass  the  torch  and  perish — well  content, 
If  in  dark  years  to  come  our  countrymen 
Feel  the  divine  flame  leap  in  them  again, 
And  so  remember  us  and  understand. 


121 


"BLIGHTY"   AND    "GONE   WEST" 

"D  RITISH  soldiers  in  France  have  developed  a  terminol- 
ogy that  is  plain  to  them,  but  confusing  to  civilians. 
They  speak  of  "Blighty,"  for  example,  and  of  "Gone 
West."  These  two  terms  express  hopes — Blighty  meaning 
home ;  in  common  acceptance,  home  for  rest  and  recupera- 
tion. "Gone  West"  means  gone  from  the  east  with  its 
conflict  to  the  refuge  of  death,  where  peace  waits  in  the 
glory  of  sunset. 

"Blighty"  is  of  Hindu  origin.  British  officers  in  South 
Africa  who  had  served  in  India  used  the  word,  which 
is  an  Anglicized  form  of  the  Indian  word  "vilayti," 
meaning  European.  Englishmen  being  about  the  only 
Europeans  the  natives  knew,  its  application  narrowed 
down  to  England  only ;  and  the  army  fell  into  a  way 
of  using  it  as  a  synonym  of  home.  When  the  troops 
from  India  came  into  action  early  in  the  war,  their 
wounded  were  sent  to  the  nearest  English  great  hospital, 
at  Brighton,  just  across  the  channel.  The  consonance  of 
Brighton  and  vilayti  or  Blighty  was  so  close  that  these 
men  used  their  own  word  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  in 
this  way  it  floated  into  general  use. 

It  has  acquired  a  new  sense  of  late.  Casualties  inter- 
mediate to  those  too  severe  for  removal  and  those  that 
can  be  treated  in  field  hospitals,  are  sent  to  England — 
to  Blighty — and  are  themselves  called  Blighty,  meaning 
wounds  that  get  a  man  home.  Lieut.  Siegfried  Sassoon 
has  woven  the  idea  into  a  plaintively  whimsical  bit  of 
verse  which  he  calls 

BLIGHTY 

T-TE  woke:  the  clank  and  racket  of  the  train 

Kept  time  with  angry  throbbings  in  his  brain, 
.  At  last  he  lifted  his  bewildered  eyes 
And  blinked,  and  rolled  them  sidelong:;  hills  and  skies, 


122 


Heavily  wooded,  hot  with  August  haze, 
And,  slipping  backward,  golden  for  his  gaze, 
Acres  of  harvest. 

Feebly  now  he  drags 

Exhausted  ego  back  from  glooms  and  quags 
And  blasting  tumult,  terror,  hurtling  glare, 
To  calm  and'brightness,  havens  of  sweet  air. 

He  sighed,  confused ;  then  drew  a  cautious  breath ; 
This  level  journeying  was  no  ride  through  death. 
"If  I  were  dead,"  he  mused,  "there'd  be  no  thinking- 
Only  some  plunging  underworld  of  sinking, 
And  hueless,  shifting  welter  where  I'd  drown." 
Then  he  remembered  that  his  name  was  Brown. 

But  was  he  back  in  Blighty?    Slow  he  turned, 
Till  in  his  heart  thanksgiving  leaped  and  burned. 
There  shone  the  blue  serene,  the  prosperous  land, 
Trees,  cows  and  hedges;  skipping  these  he  scanned, 
Large,  friendly  names  that  change  net  with  the  year, 
Lung  Tonic,  Mustard,  Liver  Pills  and  Beer. 


Hugh  Pendexter,  in  Adventure  Magazine,  says  "going 
west,"  as  used  by  the  men  overseas  to  mean  death,  is  of 
peculiarly  American  origin.  The  Karok  Indians  of 
California  believed  the  spirit  of  the  good  Karok  went 
to  the  "happy  western  land."  The  Cherokee  myths 
picture  the  west  as  the  "ghost  country,"  the  twilight  land 
where  go  the  dead.  The  Shawnee  tell  of  the  boy  who 
"traveled  west"  to  find  his  sister  in  the  spirit  land.  The 
Chippewa  believes  the  spirit  "followed  a  wide,  beaten  path 
toward  the  west."  The  spirit  world  of  the  Fox  Indians 


123 

is  at  the  setting  of  the  sun.  And  so  on,  in  the  theology 
of  many  Indian  nations  we  find  the  West  as  the  storied 
abode  of  the  great  majority — who  have  passed  over. 

The  phrase  traces  back  to  the  CEdipus  Tyrannus  of 
Sophocles : 

Toward  the  Western  shore 
Soul  after  soul  is  known  to  take  her  flight. 

Its    later    significance    is    tenderly    sung    by    Eleanor 
Jewett  in  The  Chicago  Tribune: 

GOING   WEST 

ST  to  the  hills,  the  long,   long  trail  that  strikes 
Straight  and  away  into  the  sunset's  glow, 

Ribbed  by  the  narrow  barriers  of  Death — 

Dark  are  the  waters  that  beside  it  flowr. 

The  red  flowers  fade  upon  the  fields  of  France, 

The  soaring  larks  are  fallen  to  their  nest. 

The  glare  of  battle  soothes  a  little  space.    .    .    . 

As  they  go  west.    .    .    . 


SPRING 

F.M.H.D.,   F.A. 
IN  THE  STARS  AND  STRIPES,  A.E.F.,  FRANCE 

TT'S  Spring  at  home;  I  know  the  signs — 
•*•  The  buds  are  bursting  on  the  vines, 
The  birds  speed  high  with  happier  wings, 
The  heart  of  youth  is  glad,  and  sings. 

It's  Spring  in  France;  I  know  the  signs — 
The  massed  reserves  behind  the  lines; 
The  heart  of  youth  burgeons  once  more 
To  manhood,  and  resurgent  war! 


124 


ON  HIS  OWN 

ADOLPHE  E.  SMYLIE 

OF   THE    VIGILANTES 
Permission  to  reproduce  in  this  book 


*<  "V^OU  see  that  young  kid  lying  there 

Playing  a  game  of  solitaire? 
All  shot  to  pieces  in  the  air; 
By  Heck,  Sarge,  he's  a  wonder. 
The  gamest  kid  I  ever  met  ; 
They're  probing  him  for  bullets  yet, 
But  s  —  sh  ;  here  comes  his  nurse  Yvette  — 
Kept  him  from  going  under. 

You  think  she's  passing  by  him?     Nit! 
D'you  get  that  smile?     He  waves  his  mitt; 
I  think  he's  stuck  on  her  a  bit, 
Can't  blame  him  for  that  matter, 
She  watches  him  just  like  a  hawk. 
Now  listen  to  their  daily  talk. 
She's  all  Paree,  he's  all  New  York  ; 
Sit  quiet,  hear  their  chatter." 

"Pardonnez-moi,    desirez-vous  -  " 
"Oh,  fine  and  dandy!    How  are  you?" 
"Quelque  chose?     Comprenez-vous?  — 
"Ah,  now  I  know  you're  kiddin'." 
"Vous  avez  bonne  mine  aujourd'hui  - 
"It's  high  time  you  were  nice  to  me." 
"Time?    Je  comprends,  il  est  midi— 
"Bright  eyes,  I  think  I'm  skiddin'." 

"Je  crois  que  je  vous  donnerai  -  " 
I'll  back  up  anything  you  say  -  " 
"Un  petit  morceau  de  poulet  — 
"You  fascinating  creature!" 


125 


"Avec  le  creme,  dans  la  coquil-le, — 
"Rats!    There  she  goes!    I  always  feel 
Some  blessy's  S.  O.  S.  appeal 
Will  call  off  my  French  teacher." 

The  Sarge  here  nudged  my  splintered  ribs; 
"Well,  I'll  be  damned !    Here  comes  His  Nibs !" 
And  down  the  aisle  stalked  General  Gibbs 
With  all  the  famous  aces. 
They  formed  around  the  sick  boy's  bed, 
He  gasped,  saluted,  then  turned  red : 
"Looks  like  I'm  pinched!"  was  all  he  said, 
Scanning  their  smiling  faces. 

"So,"  spoke  the  General,  "you  alone 
Brought  down  three  Taubes  on  your  own! 
Another  Yankee  Ace  is  known 
To  everyone  in  Blighty. 
I'm  proud  to  know  you, — put  it  there, — 
And  now  we're  going  to  let  you  wear 
This  gallantly  won  Croix  de  Guerre 
I'm  pinning  on  your  nighty." 


THEY    SHALL    NOT   PASS 

ALISON  BROWN 

OF  THE  VIGILANTES 

Permission    to    reproduce   in    this    book 

'T'HEY  shall  not  pass, 

While  Britain's  sons  draw  breath, 

While  strength  is  theirs  to  strike  with  shining  sword. 
They  shall  not  pass, 
Except  they  pass  to  Death — 

For  British  fighting  men  have  pledged  their  word. 

They  shall  not  pass — 

For  France  knows  no  defeat, 

Nor  hesitates  to  nobly  pay  the  price. 


126 


They  shall   not   pass 

Till  brave  hearts  cease  to  beat, 

And  none  shall  stand  to  fall  in  sacrifice. 

They  shall  not  pass — 
America  will  stand 

As  long  as  lips  can  answer  her,  "I  come." 
They  shall  not  pass, 
To  strike  the  loved  land, 

That  freedom's  children  rise  to  call  their  home. 


SHIPS  THAT  SAIL  IN  THE  NIGHT 

DYSART  McMULLEN 

IN  MUNSEY'S  MAGAZINE 

Permission   to  reproduce  in  this  book 

"Not  a  light  visible.     Not  a  man  above  the  deck." — From   a  cor- 
respondent's description, 

JJAIL  and  farewell, 

Ships  that  pass  to  the  sea! 
Hail  and  a  long  farewell, 
Soldiers  of  destiny! 

Not  with  rolling  of  drums, 

Not  with  music  and  songs, 
Not  with  laughter  and  weeping, 

Or  cheering  of  passionate  throngs; 

But  silently,  as  is  fitting, 

Gray  ghosts  passing  from  sight; 

Great  ships  like  sea-gulls  flitting 
Against  the  curtain  of  night. 


127 


*       JOHN  DOE— BUCK  PRIVATE 

ALLAN   P.   THOMSON 
IN  THE  STARS  AND  STRIPES,  A.E.F.,  FRANCE 

\\7HO  was  it,  picked  from  civil  life 

™     And  plunged  in  deadly,  frenzied  strife 
Against  a  devil's  dreadful  might? 

Just  plain  "J°hri  Doe — Buck  Private." 

Who  jumped  the  counter  for  the  trench, 
And  left  fair  shores  for  all  the  stench 
And  mud,  and  death,  and  bloody  drench? 
Your  simple,  plain  "Buck  Private." 

Who,  when  his  nerves  were  on  the  hop, 
With  courage  scaled  the  bloody  top? 
Who  was  it  made  the  Fritzies  stop? 
"J.  Doe   (no  stripes),  Buck  Private." 

Who,  underneath  his  training  tan 
Is,  every  single  inch,  a  man! 
And,  best  of  all,  American  ? 

"John  Doe,  just  plain  Buck  Private." 

Who  saw  his  job  and  did  it  well? 
Who  smiles  so  bland — yet  fights  like  hell? 
Who  rang  again  old  Freedom's  bell? 
'Twas  only  "Doe— Buck  Private." 

Who  was  it  lunged,  and  struck,  and  tore 
His  bayonet  deep  in  flesh  and  gore? 
Who  was  it  helped  to  win  the  war? 

"John  Doe    (no  brains),   Buck   Private." 

Who,  heeding  not  the  laurel  pile 
That  scheming  other  men  beguile, 
Stands  modestly  aside  the  while? 

"John  Doe  (God's  kind),  Buck  Private." 


128 

KNITTING  SOCKS 

The  Boston  Transcript  reprinted  the  following  poem  in  1917,  just 
as  it  appeared  in  that  paper  November  27,   1861. 

QLICK,  click!  how  the  needles  go 

Through  the  busy  fingers,  to  and  fro — 
With  no  bright  colors  of  berlin  wool, 
Delicate  hands  today  are  full: 
Only  a  yarn  of  deep,  dull  blue, 
Socks  for  the  feet  of  the  brave  and  true. 
Yet  click,  click,  how  the  needles  go, 
'Tis  a  power  within  that  nerves  them  so. 
In  the  sunny  hours  of  the  bright  spring  day, 
And  still  in  the  night  time  far  away. 
Maiden,  mother,  grandame  sit 
Earnest  and  thoughtful  while  they  knit. 
Many  the  silent  prayers  they  pray, 
Many  the  tear  drops  brushed  away. 
While  busy  on  the  needles  go, 
Widen  and  narrow,  heel  and  toe. 
The  grandame  thinks  with  a  thrill  of  pride 
How  her  mother  knit  and  spun  beside 
For  that  patriot  band  in  olden  days 
Who  died  the  Stars  and  Stripes  to  raise — 
Now  she  in  turn  knits  for  the  brave 
Who'd  die  that  glorious  flag  to  save. 
She  is  glad,  she  says,  "the  boys"  have  gone, 
'Tis  just  as  their  grandfathers  would  have  done. 
But  she  heaves  a  sigh  and  the  tears  will  start, 
For  "the  boys"  were  the  pride  of  grandame's  heart. 
The  mother's  look  is  calm  and  high, 
God  only  hears  her  soul's  deep  cry — 
In  Freedom's  name,  at  Freedom's  call, 
She  gave  her  sons — in  them  her  all. 
The  maiden's  cheek  wears  a  paler  shade, 


129 


But  the  light  in  her  eyes  is  undismayed. 
Faith  and  hope  give  strength  to  her  sight, 
She  sees  a  red  dawn  after  the  night. 
Oh,  soldiers  brave,  will  it  brighten  the  day, 
And  shorten  the  march  on  the  weary  way, 
To  know  that  at  home  the  loving  and  true 
Are  knitting  and  hoping  and  praying  for  you? 
Soft  are  the  voices  when  speaking  your  name, 
Proud  are  their  glories  when  hearing  your  fame. 
And  the  gladdest  hour  in  their  lives  will  be 
When  they  greet  you  after  the  victory. 


THE  GOLDENROD 

"ANCHUSA" 
FROM  B.  L.  T.'s  COLUMN  IN  THE  CHICAGO  TRIBUNE 

COME  day  the  fields  of  Flanders  shall  bloom  in  peace 

again, 
Field  lilies  and  the  clover  spread  where  once  was  crimson 

stain, 
And  a  new,  cheerful  golden  spray  shine  through  the  sun 

and  rain. 

The  clover's  for  the  English  who  sleep  beneath  that  sod, 
The  lily's  for  the  noble  French  whose  spirits  rest  with 

God, 
But  where  our  sacred  dead  shall  sleep  must  bloom  the 

goldenrod. 

For  every  flower  of  summer  those  meadows  will  have 
room, 

And  yet  I  think  no  Flemish  hand  will  touch  the  kaiser- 
bloom, 

Whose  growing  blue  must  evermore  whisper  of  grief  and 
doom. 


130 

But  clover  for  the  English  shall  blossom  from  the  sod, 
And  glorious  lilies  for  the  French  whose  spirits  rest  with 

God. 
And  where  our  own  lads  lie  asleep  the  prairie  goldenrod. 

Once   more   the    Flemish    children   shall   laugh    through 

Flemish  lanes, 
And    gather   happy    garlands   through    fields    of    bygone 

pains, 
And,  as  they   run  and  cull  their  flowers,  sing  in  their 

simple  strains: 

"These  clovers  are  for  English  who  fought  to  save  this 

sod, 
These  lilies  for  the  valiant  French — may  their  souls  rest 

in  God! 
And  for  the  brave  Americans  we  pluck  this  goldenrod." 

MAGPIES  IN  PICARDY 

"TIPCUCA" 
IN  THE  WESTMINSTER  GAZETTE 

'T'HE  magpies  in  Picardy 

Are  more  than  I  can  tell. 
They  flicker  down  the  dusty  roads 

And  cast  a  magic  spell 
On  the  men  who  march  through  Picardy, 

Through  Picardy  to  hell. 

(The  blackbird  flies  with  panic, 

The  swallow  goes  like  light, 
The  finches  move  like  ladies, 

The  owl  floats  by  at  night; 
But  the  great  and  flashing  magpie 

He  flies  as  artists  might.) 


131 


A  magpie  in  Picardy 

Told  me  secret  things — 
Of  the  music  in  white  feathers, 

And  the  sunlight  that  sings 
And  dances  in  deep  shadows — 

He  told  me  with  his  wings. 

(The  hawk  is  cruel  and  rigid, 
He  watches  from  a  height ; 

The  rook  is  slow  and  somber, 
The  robin  loves  to  fight; 

But  the  great  and  flashing  magpie 
He  flies  as  lovers  might.) 

He  told  me  that  in  Picardy, 

An  age  ago  or  more, 
While  all  his  fathers  still  were  eggs, 

These  dusty  highways  bore 
Brown,  singing  soldiers  marching  out 

Through  Picardy  to  war. 

He  said  that  still  through  chaos 
Works  on  the  ancient  plan, 

And  that  two  things  have  altered  not 
Since  first  the  world  began — 

The  beauty  of  the  wild  green  earth 
And  the  bravery  of  man. 

(For  the  sparrow  flies  unthinking 
And  quarrels  in  his  flight. 

The  heron  trails  his  legs  behind, 
The  lark  goes  out  of  sight; 

But  the  great  and  flashing  magpie 
He  flies  as  poets  might.) 


132 


SOMEWHERE   IN   FRANCE,    1918 

ALMON    HENSLEY 
IN    EVERYBODY'S    MAGAZINE 

Permission    to    reproduce    in    this    book 

EAVE  me  alone  here,  proudly,  with  my  dead, 

Ye  mothers  of  brave  sons  adventurous ; 
He  who  once  prayed:    "If  it  be  possible 

Let  this  cup  pass,"  will  arbitrate  for  us. 
Your  boy  with  iron  nerves  and  careless  smile 

Marched  gaily  by  and  dreamed  of  glory's  goal ; 
Mine   had    blanched    cheek,    straight    mouth    and    close- 
gripped  hands 

And  prayed  that  somehow  he  might  save  his  soul. 
I  do  not  grudge  your  ribbon  or  your  cross, 

The  price  of  these  my  soldier,  too,  has  paid  ; 
I  hug  a  prouder  knowledge  to  my  heart, 

The  mother  of  the  boy  who  was  afraid! 

He  was  a  tender  child  with  nerves  so  keen 

They  doubled  pain  and  magnified  the  sad; 
He  hated  cruelty  and  things  obscene 

And  in  all  high  and  holy  things  was  glad. 
And  so  he  gave  what  others  could  not  give, 

The  one  supremest  sacrifice  he  made, 
A  thing  your  brave  boy  could  not  understand ; 

He  gave  his  all  because  he  was  afraid! 


133 


AFTERWARD 

CHARLES  HANSON  TOWNE 
IN  THE  NEW  YORK  TRIBUNE 

'T'HE  sick  man  said:   "I  pray  I  shall  not  die 

Before  this  tumult  which  now  rocks  the  earth 
Shall  cease.     I  dread  far  journeyings  to  God 
Ere  I  have  heard  the  final  shots  of  war, 
And  learned  the  outcome  of  this  holocaust." 

Yet  one  night,  while  the  guns  still  roared  and  flashed, 
His  spirit  left  his  body;  left  the  earth 
Which  he  had  loved  in  sad,  disastrous  days, 
And  sped  to  heav'n  amid  the  glittering  stars 
And  the  white  splendor  of  the  quiet  moon. 

One  instant — and  a  hundred  years  rushed  by! 
And  he,  a  new  immortal,  found  his  way 
Among  the  great  celestial  hills  of  God. 
Then  suddenly  one  memory  of  earth 
Flashed  like  a  meteor's  flame  across  his  mind. 

One  instant — and  another  hundred  years! 
And  even  the  dream  of  that  poor  little  place 
Which  he  had  known  was  lost  in  greater  spheres 
Through  which  he  whirled;  and  old  remembrances 
Were  but  as  flecks  of  dust  blown  down  the  night; 
And  nothing  mattered,  save  that  suns  and  moons 
Swung  in  the  ether  for  unnumbered  worlds 
High,  high  above  the  pebble  of  the  earth. 


134 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  GUNS 

HERBERT   KAUFMAN 

From  Mr.  Kaufman's  book  of  poems,  "The  Hell  Gate  of  Soissons." 
T.  Fisher  Unwin,  Publishers  (all  rights  reserved),  London,  England. 
Special  permission  to  reproduce  in  this  book. 

TLJEAR  the  guns,  hear  the  guns! 

High  above  the  splutter-sputter 
Of  the  Maxim,  and  the  stutter 
Of  the  rifles,  hear  them  shrieking. 
See  the  searching  shells  come  sneaking, 
Softly  speaking, 
Slyly  seeking, 

Thirsting,  bursting,  shrapnel-leaking 
Where  the  ranks  are  thickest — tearing 
Mighty  gaps  among  the  daring. 
Charging  horse  and  rider  stumble, 
And  brigades  fall  in  a  jumble; 
Earthworks  crumble, 
Standards  tumble, 
And  the  driving  bayonets  fumble, 
But  unsated, 
Still  the  hated 
Cannon  thunder,  unabated. 
Hear  them  rumble, 
Hear  them  grumble, 
Hear  the  old  song  of  the  guns! 
"Send  your  sons, 
Send  your  sons, 
All  your  near  ones, 
All  your  dear  ones  ; 
Give  us  food! 
Give  us  food! 

Give  the  strongest  of  your  brood. 
Let  us  feed! 
Let  us  feed! 


135 


On  the  bravest  that  you  breed. 

Give  us  meat, 

Give  us  meat, 

Oh,  the  blood  of  Valor's  sweet!" 

And  the  women  make  reply: 

Ah,  the  glory  of  the  lie — 

"Look,  no  tear  is  in  our  eye. 

Rather  would  we  see  you  die 

For  your  country,  than  stand  by. 

Rather  would  we  boast  to  tell 

To  your  children  that  you  fell, 

Than  to  have  you  lurk  and  sell 

Honor  for  a  coward's  breath  ; 

Better  far  the  soldier's  death. 

Go  and  battle  for  the  land. 

Make  a  stand! 

Make  a  stand! 

Go  and  join  the  "dauntless  band. 

Take  a  hand ! 

Take  a  hand! 

Count  not  us — God  will  provide!" 

Thus  the  women  in  their  pride 

Mask  their  hearts — their  anguish  hide. 

Thus  the  mother  and  the  bride 

Bid  their  men  to  march  and  ride 

To  the  guns, 

Hungry  guns, 

Rumbling,  grumbling  for  their  sons. 

Thus  the  women  ever  give, 

Give  their  nearest,  dearest  ones 

At  the  summons  of  the  guns. 

What  is  war  to  men — they  die. 

But  the  widowed  women,  aye, 

To  the  end  alone,  must  live. 


136 


TELLING  THE  BEES 

(AN  OLD  GLOUCESTERSHIRE  SUPERSTITION) 

G.  E.  R. 
IN  THE  WESTMINSTER  GAZETTE 

'T'HEY  dug  no  grave  for  our  soldier  lad,  who  fought 

and  who  died  out  there: 
Bugle  and  drum  for  him  were  dumb,  and  the  padre  said 

no  prayer; 
The  passing  bell  gave  never  a  peal  to  warn  that  a  soul 

was  fled, 
And  we  laid  him  not  in  the  quiet  spot  where  cluster  his 

kin  that  are  dead. 

But  I  hear  a  foot  on  the  pathway,  above  the  low  hum  of 

the  hive, 
That  at  edge  of  dark,  with  the  song  of  the  lark,  tells 

that  the  world  is  alive : 
The  master  starts  on  his  errand,  his  tread  is  heavy  and 

slow, 
Yet  he  cannot  choose  but  tell  the  news — the  bees  have 

a  right  to  know. 

Bound  by  the  ties  of  a  happier  day,  they  are  one  with  us 

now  in  our  worst ; 
On  the  very  morn  that  my  boy  was  born  they  were  told 

the  tidings  the  first: 
With  what  pride  they  will  hear  of  the  end  he  made,  and 

the  ordeal  that  he  trod — 
Of  the  scream  of  shell,  and  the  venom  of  hell,  and  the 

flame  of  the  sword  of  God. 

Wise  little  heralds,  tell  of  my  boy ;  in  your  .golden  tabard 
coats 


137 

Tell  the  bank  where  he  slept,  and  the  stream  he  leapt, 

where  the  spangled  lily  floats: 
The  tree  he  climbed  shall  lift  her  head,  and  the  torrent 

he  swam  shall  thrill, 
And  the  tempest  that  bore  his  shouts  before  shall  cry  his 

message  still. 


THE  RETINUE 

KATHARINE    LEE    BATES 

IN  THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY 

Permission  to  reproduce  in  this  book 

A  RCHDUKE  FRANCIS   FERDINAND,  Austrian 

heir-apparent, 
Rideth   through   the   Shadow   Land,   not   a   lone    knight 

errant, 

But  captain  of  a  mighty  train,  millions  upon  millions, 
Armies  of  the  battle  slain,  hordes  of  dim  civilians; 


German  ghosts  who  see  their  works  with  tortured  eyes, 

the  sorry 

Spectres  of  sacred  tyrants,  Turks  hunted  by  their  quarry, 
Liars,    plotters    red    of    hand — like    waves    of    poisonous 

gases, 
Sweeping  through  the  Shadow  Land  the  host  of  horror 

passes ; 

Spirits  bright  as  broken  blades  drawn  for  truth  and  honor, 
Sons  of  Belgium,  pallid  maids,  martyrs  who  have  won  her 
Love  eternal,  bleeding  breasts  of  the  French  defiance, 
Russians  on  enraptured  quests,  Freedom's  proud  alliance. 


138 

Through    that   hollow    hush    of   doom,    vast,    unvisioned 

regions, 
Led    by    Kitchener    of    Khartum,    march    the    English 

legions : 

Kilt  and  shamrock,  maple  leaf,  dreaming  Hindu  faces, 
Brows  of  glory,  eyes  of  grief,  arms  of  lost  embraces. 

Like  a  moaning  tide  of  woe,  midst  those  pale  battalions 
From  the  Danube  and  the  Po,  Arabs  and  Australians, 
Pours  a  ghastly  multitude  that  breaks  the  heart  of  pity, 
Wreckage  of  some  shell-bestrewed  waste  that  was  a  city; 
Flocking   from   the   murderous   seas,    from   the   famished 

lowland, 

From  the  blazing  villages  of  Serbia  and  Poland, 
Woman  phantoms,  baby  wraiths,  trampled  by  war's  blind- 
ness, 

Horses,  dogs,  that  put  their  faiths  in  human  loving  kind- 
ness. 

Tamburlane,  Napoleon,  envious  Alexander 
Peer  in  wonder  at  the  wan,  tragical  commander, 
Archduke    Francis   Ferdinand — when   shall    his   train   be 

ended? — 
Of  all  the  lords  of  Shadow  Land  most  royally  attended ! 


139 


VIVE  LA  FRANCE! 

CHARLOTTE  HOLMES  CRAWFORD 

By    permission:        From    Scribner's    Magazine,    copyright,    1916,    by 
Charles    Scribner's    Sons. 

"CRANCELINE   rose  in  the  dawning  gray, 

And  her  heart  would  dance  though  she  knelt  to  pray, 
For  her  man  Michel  had  holiday, 
Fighting  for  France. 

She  offered  her  prayer  by  the  cradle-side, 
And  with  baby  palms  folded  in  hers  she. cried: 
"If  I  have  but  one  prayer,  dear,  crucified 
Christ — save  France! 

"But  if  I  have  two,  then,  by  Mary's  grace, 
Carry  me  safe  to  the  meeting  place, 
Let  me  look  once  again  on  my  dear  love's  face, 
Save  him  for  France!" 

She  crooned  to  her  boy:   "Oh,  how  glad  he'll  be, 
Little  three-months  old,  to  set  eyes  on  thee! 
For  'Rather  than  gold,  would  I  give,'  wrote  he, 
'A  son  to  France.' 

"Come,  now,  be  good,  little  stray  sauterelle, 
For  we're  going  by-by  to  thy  papa  Michel, 
But  I'll  not  say  where  for  fear  thou  wilt  tell, 
Little  pigeon  of  France! 

"Six  days'  leave  and  a  year  between! 
But  what  would  you  have?     In  six  days  clean, 
Heaven  was  made,"  said  Franceline, 
"Heaven  and  France." 


140 

She  came  to  the  town  of  the  nameless  name, 
To  the  marching  troops  in  the  street  she  came, 
And  she  held  high  her  boy  like  a  taper  flame 
Burning  for  France. 

Fresh  from  the  trenches  and  gray  with  grime, 
Silent  they  march  like  a  pantomime; 
"But  what  need  of  music?     My  heart  beats  time — 
Vive  la  France!" 


His  regiment  comes.     Oh,  then  where  is  he? 
"There  is  dust  in  my  eyes,  for^I  cannot  see, — 
Is  that  my  Michel  to  the  right  of  thee, 
Soldier  of  France?" 

Then  out  of  the  ranks  a  comrade  fell — 
"Yesterday — 'twas  a  splinter  of  shell — 
And  he  whispered  thy  name,  did  poor  Michel, 
Dying  for  France." 

The  tread  of  the  troops  on  the  pavement  throbbed 
Like  a  woman's  heart  of  its  last  joy  robbed, 
As  she  lifted  her  boy  to  the  flag,  and  sobbed 
"Vive  la  France!" 


141 


THE  WOES  OF  A  ROOKIE 

WILLIAM    L.    COLESTOCK     • 

T    ENLISTED  in  the  infantry  last  summer; 

I  was  greeted  at  the  training  camp  with  joy; 
I  had  hardly  gotten  settled,  when  a  sergeant 

Told  me  I  was  now  the  Company's  errand  boy. 
Now,  I  knew  I'd  have  to  start  in  at  the  bottom, 

And  acquire  my  army  training  bit  by  bit; 
But  to  be  assigned  to  duties  quite  so  humble, 

Was  humiliating,  surely  you'll  admit. 

My  first  errand  was  a  trip  to  Field  Headquarters. 

It  was  raining  and  the  mud  was  deep  and  thick. 
I  was  ordered  to  seek  out  the  Major  General, 

And  procure  a  requisition  for  a  brick. 
'Twas  explained  to  me,  before  I  left  my  Company, 

That  our  Captain  suffered  much  with  chilly  feet, 
And  that  bricks,  when  rightly  heated,  would  correct  this. 

What  that  Major  General  said,  I'll  not  repeat. 

To  our  surly  Regimental  Quartermaster, 

I  was  sent  to  get  the  Company's  Sunday  hats, 
And  my  Sergeant  said,  "to  save  myself  some  walking," 

I  could  "also  get  the  First  Lieutenant's  spats"; 
When  I  told  that  sour  Quartermaster's  seageant 

What  it  was  I'd  like  to  have  for  Company  A, 
Gosh,  he  "bawled  me  out,"  said  "Your  ears  should  be 
longer, 

And  your  rations  should  be  changed   from  beans  to 
hay." 

For  a  thousand  feet  of  skirmish  line  I  hunted 
For  a  half  a  day,  before  I  saw  the  joke ; 


142 

Next  they  sent  me  for  a  left-hand  canvas  stretcher, 
To  repair  the  Mess-hall  windows,  which  were  broke. 

As  the  Company  Street  was  slightly  rough  and  bumpy, 
They  dispatched  me  for  a  double-jointed  plow; 

And  one  breakfast-time  they  sent  me  to  the  Colonel, 
With  a  pail,  to  milk  the  Regimental  cow. 

Then  one  day  the  Sergeant  said,  "You've  been  promoted. 

You're  now  morning  call-boy   for  the   Regiment, 
And  each  morning,  bright  and  early,  you  will  sprinkle 

Drops  of  water  on  each  face,  in  every  tent." 
In  the  morning  I  began  my  sprinkling  duties, 

And  had  sprinkled  in  about  one  dozen  tents, 
When  a  bunch  of  fellows  rushed  me  to  the  hydrant, 

Where  they  "soused"   me  good;  since  then   I've  -hud 
some  sense. 

As  I  look  back  at  the  time  I  "ran  the  paddles," 

After  having  set  me.  down  in  water  wet ; 
Rushing  down  between  two  rows  of  husky  messmates, 

With  my  arms  above  my  head,  I  feel  it  yet. 
Now,  I'vt  graduated  from  the  rookie  section, 

And  the  "awkward  squad"  will  miss  me  in  its  ranks, 
And  I'm  happy,  for  a  bunch  of  bloomin'  rookies 

Have  arrived.    To  those  that  sent  them,  Many  Thanks. 


143 

IN  THE  FRONT-LINE  DESKS 

LIEUT.  ELMER  FRANKLIN    POWELL 

IN  ADVENTURE  MAGAZINE 
Permission  to  reproduce  in  this  book 

TRIED   to   be   a   doughboy,   but   they  said  my  feet 
were  flat 

And  I'd  surely  never  stand  the  awful  strain. 
No  chance  to  even  argue  that  I'd  like  to  bet  my  hat 

I  could  out  walk  any  tar-heel  in  the  train. 
"Awful  sorry,  but  it's  useless,"  was  the  doctor's  mournful 
wail. 

"Your  eyesight  quite  unfits  you  for  the  guns." 
Uselessly  I  tried  to  tell  him  that  at  dropping  leaden  hail 

I  could  surely  decimate  a  pack  of  Huns. 

Then  I  hoped  for  aviation,  for  my  nerve  is  still  in  place, 
But  there  wasn't  even  half  a  chance  for  that. 

A  stocky  young  lieutenant  said,  "You'll  never  hold  the 

pace, 
For  you've  got  a  jumpy  eyebrow."     Think  o'  that! 

So  they  went  and  made  me  captain  in  the  Quartermaster 

Corps, 

Where  I  juggle  lists  of  beans  the  livelong  day. 
Trying  hard  to  grin  and  bear  it  as  the  boys  march  off 

to  war 
While  I  sit  and  figure  up  their  blasted  pay. 


144 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN  WALKS  AT  MIDNIGHT 

(!N  SPRINGFIELD,  ILLINOIS) 
VACHEL  LINDSAY 

From  Vachel  Lindsay's  book  entitled  "The  Congo  and  Other  Poems," 
published  and  copyright,  1914,  by  The  Macmillan  Company,  New  York. 
Special  permission  to  insert  in  this  book. 

J"  T  is  portentous,  and  a  thing  of  state, 

That  here  at  midnight,  in  our  little  town 
A  mourning  figure  walks,  and  will  not  rest, 
Near  the  old  court  house  pacing  up  and  down. 

Or  by  his  homestead,  or  in  shadowed  yards 
He  lingers  where  his  children  used  to  play, 
Or  through  the  market,  on  the  well-worn  stones 
He  stalks  until  the  dawn-stars  burn  away. 

A  bronzed,  lank  man!    His  suit  of  ancient  black, 
A  famous  high-top  hat  and  plain  worn  shawl 
Make  him  the  quaint  great  figure  that  men  love, 
The  prairie  lawyer,  master  of  us  all. 

He  cannot  sleep  upon  his  hillside  now. 
He  is  among  us; — as  in  times  before! 
And  we  who  toss  and  lie  awake  for  long 
Breathe  deep,  and  start,  to  see  him  pass  the  door. 

His  head  is  bowed.     He  thinks  on  men  and  kings. 
Yea,  when  the  sick  world  cries,  how  can  he  sleep? 
Too  many  peasants  fight,  they  know  not  why, 
Too  many  homesteads  in  black  terror  weep. 

The  sins  of  all  the  war-lords  burn  his  heart. 
He  sees  the  dreadnaughts  scouring  every  main. 
He  carries  on  his  shawl-wrapped  shoulders  now 
The  bitterness,  the  folly  and  the  pain. 


145 


He  cannot  rest  until  a  spirit-dawn 
Shall  come; — the  shining  hope  of  Europe  free; 
The  League  of  sober  folk,  the  Workers'  Earth 
Bringing  long  peace  to  Cornland,  Alp  and  Sea. 

It  breaks  his  heart  that  kings  must  murder  still, 
That  all  his  hours  of  travail  here  for  men 
Seem  yet  in  vain.     And  who  will  bring  white  peace 
That  he  may  sleep  upon  his  hill  again? 


THE   KINGS 

HUGH  J.  HUGHES 
IN  FARM,  STOCK  AND  HOME 

PHE  Kings  are  dying!    In  blood  and  flame 

Their  sun  is  setting  to  rise  no  more ! 

They  have  played  too  long  at  the  ancient  game 

Of  their  bluer  blood  and  the  bolted  door. 


Now  the  blood  of  their  betters  is  on  their  hands — 
The  blood  of  the  peasant,  the  child,  the  maid ; 

And  there  are  no  waters  in  all  the  lands 
Can  bathe  them  clean  of  the  dark  stain  laid. 

They  have  sinned  in  malice  and  craven  fear — 
For  the  sake  of  their  tinsel  have  led  us  on 

To  the  hate-built  trench  and  the  death-drop  sheer, 
But  the  day  will  come  when  the  Kings  are  gone. 

The  Kings  are  dying!    Beat,  O  drums, 
The  world-wide  roll  of  the  democrat! 

O  bugles,  cry  out  for  the  day  that  comes 

When  the  Kings  that  were  shall  be  marveled  at ! 


146 


JEAN    DESPREZ 

ROBERT  W.  SERVICE 

From  "Rhymes  of  a  Red  Cross  Man,"  by  Robert  W.  Service, 
published  and  copyright,  1916,  by  Barse  &  Hopkins,  New  York.  Special 
permission  to  reproduce  in  this  book. 

ye  whose  hearts  are  resonant,  and  ring  to  War's 

romance, 

Hear  ye  the  story  of  a  boy,  a  peasant  boy  of  France ; 
A  lad  uncouth  and  warped  with  toil,  yet  who,  when  trial 

came, 
Could  feel  within  his  soul  upleap  and  soar,  the  sacred 

flame; 
Could  stand  upright,  and  scorn  and  smite,  as  only  heroes 

may: 
Oh,  harken !    Let  me  try  to  tell  the  tale  of  Jean  Desprez. 

With  fire  and  sword  the  Teujon  horde  was  ravaging  the 

land, 
And  there  was  darkness  and  despair,  grim  death  on  every 

hand ; 
Red   fields   of   slaughter   sloping    down    to    ruin's    black 

abyss  ; 
The  wolves  of  war  ran  evil-fanged,  and  little  did  they 

miss. 
And  on  they  came  with  fear  and  flame,  to  burn  and  loot 

and  slay, 
Until  they  reached  the  red-roofed  croft,  the  home  of  Jean 

Desprez. 

"Rout  out  of  the  village,  one  and  all!"  the  Uhlan  Cap- 
tain said. 

"Behold!  Some  hand  has  fired  a  shot.  My  trumpeter  is 
dead. 


147 

Now  shall  they  Prussian  vengeance  know ;  now  shall  they 

rue  the  day, 

For  by  this  sacred  German  slain,  ten  of  these  dogs  shall 
'  pay." 

They  drove  the  cowering  peasants  forth,  women  and 
babes  and  men, 

And  from  the  last,  with  many  a  jeer,  the  Captain  chose 
he  ten; 

Ten  simple  peasants,  bowed  with  toil ;  they  stood,  they 
knew  not  why 

Against  the  grey  wall  of  the  church,  hearing  their  chil- 
dren cry; 

Hearing  their  wives  and  mothers  wail,  with  faces  dazed 
they  stood. 

A  moment  only.  .  .  .  Ready!  Fire!  They  weltered  in 
their  blood. 

But   there  was  one  who  gazed   unseen,   who  heard   the 

frenzied  cries, 
Who  saw  these  men  in  sabots  fall  before  their  children's 

eyes  ; 
A  Zouave  wounded  in  a  ditch,  and  knowing  death  was 

nigh, 
He  laughed  with  joy:    "Ah!  here  is  where  I  settle  ere 

I  die." 
He  clutched  his  rifle  once  again,  and  long  he  aimed  and 

well.  .  .  . 
A  shot!     Beside  his  victims  ten  the  Uhlan  Captain  fell. 

They  dragged  the  wounded  Zouave  out;  their  rage  was 

like  a  flame. 
With  bayonets  they  pinned  him  down,  until  their  Major 

came. 
A  blond,  full-blooded  man  he  was,  and  arrogant  of  eye. 


148 

He  stared  to  see  with  shattered  skull  his  favorite  Captain 
lie. 

"Nay,  do  not  finish  him  so  quick,  this  foreign  swine,"  he 
cried  ; 

"Go  nail  him  to  the  big  church  door:  he  shall  be  cruci- 
fied." 

With  bayonets  through  hands  and  feet  they  nailed  the 

Zouave  there, 

And  there  was  anguish  in  his  eyes,  and  horror  in  his  stare  ; 
"Water!    A    single    drop!"   he   moaned;    but   how    they 

jeered  at  him, 
And  mocked  him  with  an  empty  cup,  and  saw  his  sight 

grow  dim; 

And  as  in  agony  of  death  with  blood  his  lips  were  wet, 
The  Prussian  Major  gaily  laughed,  and  lit  a  cigarette. 

But  'mid  the  white-faced  villagers  who  cowered  in  hor- 
ror by, 

Was  one  who  saw  the  woeful  sight,  who  heard  the  woe- 
ful cry: 

"Water!  One  little  drop,  I  beg!  For  love  of  Christ  who 
died.  ..." 

It  was  the  little  Jean  Desprez  who  turned  and  stole 
aside  ; 

It  was  the  little  barefoot  boy  who  came  with  cup  abrim 

And  walked  up  to  the  dying  man,  and  gave  the  drink 
to  him. 

A  roar  of  rage!   They  seize  the  boy;  they  tear  him  fast 

away. 

The  Prussian  Major  swings  around ;  no  longer  is  he  gay. 
His  teeth  are  wolfishly  agleam;  his  face  all  dark  with 

spite : 

"Go,  shoot  the  brat,"  he  snarls,  "that  dare  defy  our  Prus- 
sian might. 


149 

Yet  stay!    I  have  another  thought.     I'll  kindly  be,  and 

spare. 
Quick!  give  the  lad  a  rifle  charged,  and  set  him  squarely 

there, 
And  bid  him  shoot,  and  shoot  to  kill.     Haste !   Make  him 

understand 
The   dying  dog  he   fain  would  save  shall  perish  by  his 

hand. 
And   all  his  kindred   they  shall  see,   and   all  shall   curse 

his   name, 
Who  bought  his  life  at  such  a  cost,  the  price  of  death 

and   shame." 

They  brought  the  boy,  wild-eyed  with  fear;  they  made 

him  understand; 

They  stood  him  by  the  dying  man,  a  rifle  in  his  hand. 
"Make  haste!"  said   they;  "the  time  is  short,    and  you 

must  kill  or  die." 

The  Major  puffed  his  cigarette,  amusement  in  his  eye. 
And  then  the  dying  Zouave  heard,  and  raised  his  weary 

head: 
"Shoot,  son,  'twill  be  the  best  for  both;  shoot  swift  and 

straight,"  he  said. 
"Fire  first  and  last,  and  do  not  flinch ;  for  lost  to  hope 

am  I; 
And  I  will  murmur:  Vive  la  France!  and  bless  you  ere 

I   die." 

Half-blind  with  blows  the  boy  stood  there ;  he  seemed  to 

swoon  and  sway; 
Then    in    that    moment    woke    the    soul    of    little    Jean 

Desprez. 
He  saw  the  woods   go  sheening  down;  the  larks  were 

singing  clear; 


150 

And  oh!  the  scents  and  sounds  of  spring,  how  sweet  they 

were!  how  dear! 
He  felt  the  scent  of  new-mown  hay,  a  soft  breeze  fanned 

his  brow ; 
O  God!  the  paths  of  peace  and  toil!    How  precious  were 

they  now! 

The  summer  days  and  summer  ways,   how  bright  with 

hope   and  bliss! 

The  autumn  such  a  dream  of  gold  ;  and  all  must  end  in  this : 
This  shining  rifle  in  his  hand,  that  shambles  all  around ; 
The  Zouave  there  with  dying  glare;  the  blood  upon  the 

ground ; 

The  brutal  faces  round  him  ringed,  the  evil  eyes  aflame; 
That  Prussian  bully  standing  by  as  if  he  watched  a  game. 
"Make  haste  and  shoot,"  the  Major  sneered;  a  minute 

more   I  give; 
A  minute  more  to  kill  your  friend,  if  you  yourself  would 

live." 

They  only  saw  a  barefoot  boy,  with  blanched  and  twitch- 
ing face; 

They  did  not  see  within  his  eyes  the  glory  of  his  race; 

The  glory  of  a  million  men  who  for  fair  France  have 
died, 

The  splendor  of  self-sacrifice  that  will  not  be  denied. 

Yet  he  was  but  a  peasant  lad,  and  oh !  but  life  was  sweet. 

"Your  minute's  nearly  gone,  my  lad,"  he  heard  a  voice 
repeat. 

"Shoot!  Shoot!"  the  dying  Zouave  moaned;  "Shoot! 
Shoot!"  the  soldier  said. 

Then  Jean  Desprez  reached  out  and  shot  .  .  .  the  Prus- 
sian Major  dead! 


151 


SUDDENLY  ONE  DAY 

AUTHOR   UNKNOWN 
FROM  THE  WESTMINSTER  GAZETTE 

Found   in   the    pocket   of   Capt.   T.    P.   C.    Wilson,   a   British   officer, 
killed    in    action. 

CUDDENLY  one  day 

°  The  last  ill  shall  fall  away. 

The  last  little  beastliness  that  is  in  our  blood 

Shall  drop  from  us  as  the  sheath  drops  from  the  bud, 

And  the  great  spirit  of  man  shall  struggle  through 

And  spread  huge  branches  underneath  the  blue. 

In  any  mirror,  be  it  bright  or  dim, 

Man  will  see  God,  staring  back  at  him. 


WE'RE   MARCHIN'  WITH   THE  COUNTRY 

FRANK   L.   STANTON 
IN  JOURNAL  OF  EDUCATION 

T^HE  old  flag  is  a-doin'  her  very  level  best, 

She's  a  rainbow  roun'  the  country  from  the  rosy  east 

to  the  west; 
An'   the  eagle's   in   the    elements   with   sunshine   on   his 

breast, 
An'  we're  marchin'  with  the  country  in  the  mornin' ! 

We're  marchin'  to  the  music  that  is  ringin'  far  and  nigh; 
You  can  hear  the  hallelujahs  as  the  regiments  go  by; 
We'll  live  for  this  old  country,  or  for  freedom's  cause 

we'll  die— 
We're  marchin'  with  the  country  in  the  mornin'! 


152 


DO  YOUR  ALL 


EDGAR  A.  GUEST 

From  Mr.  Guest's  book  of  war  time  rhymes,  "Over  Here."  Published 
and  copyright,  1918,  by  The  Reilly  &  Britton  Company,  Publishers, 
Chicago.  Special  permission  to  reproduce  in  this  book. 

"  "P\O  your  bit!"    How  cheap  and  trite 
Seems  that  phrase  in  such  a  fight! 
"Do  your  bit!"  That  cry  recall, 
Change  it  now  to  "Do  your  all!" 
Do  your  all,  and  then  do  more; 
Do  what  you're  best  fitted  for  ; 
Do  your  utmost,  do  and  give. 
You  have  but  one  life  to  live. 

Do  your  finest,  do  your  best, 
Don't  let  up  and  stop  to  rest, 
Don't  sit  back  and  idly  say, 
"I  did  something  yesterday." 
Come  on !    Here's  another  hour. 
Give  it  all  you  have  of  power. 
Here's  another  day  that  needs 
Everybody's  share  of  deeds. 

"Do  your  bit!"  of  course,  but  then 
Do  it  time  and  time  again; 
Giving,  doing,  all  should  be 
Up  to  full  capacity. 
Now's  no  time  to  pick  and  choose. 
We've  a  war  we  must  not  lose. 
Be  your  duty  great  or  small, 
Do  it  well  and  do  it  all.  . 

Do  by  careful,  patient  living, 
Do  by  cheerful,  open  giving; 
Do  by  serving  day  by  day 
At  whatever  post  you  may; 


153 


Do  by  sacrificing  pleasure, 
Do  by  scorning  hours  of  leisure. 
Now  to  God  and  country  give 
Every  minute  that  you  live. 


FLAG    OF   THE    FREE 

FRANCIS   T.   SMITH. 
IN  POPULAR  EDUCATOR 

"CLOAT  thou  majestically, 

Proudly,  triumphantly, 
Ever  protectingly, 
Flag  of  the  free. 
No  foe  our  faith  shall  blight 
In  thy  unconquered  might, 
Emblem  of  truth  and  right, 
We  bow  to  thee. 

As  in  grim  days  of  yore — 
Now  on  a  hostile  shore, 
Fulfill  thy  pledge  once  more, 
Red,  white  and  blue. 
Long  as  thy  stately  bars 
And  heaven's  reflected  stars 
Dishonor  never  mars, 
We  will  be  true. 

Prove  to  the  waiting  world, 
When  free  men  are  assailed, 
Our  standard  is  unfurled 
For  justice  still. 
Strengthen  us  lest  we  fall, 
Inspiring  one  and  all, 
Urging  thy  righteous  call, 
Under  God's  will. 


154 


THE   SERVICE   FLAG 

WILLIAM  HERSCHELL 

IN  THE  INDIANAPOLIS  NEWS 
Permission  to  reproduce  in  this  book 

"TNEAR  little  flag  in  the  window  there, 

Hung  with  a  tear  and  a  woman's  prayer; 
Child  of  Old  Glory,  born  with  a  star — 
Oh,  what  a  wonderful  flag  you  are! 

Blue  is  your  star  in  its  field  of  white, 
Dipped  in  the  red  that  was  born  of  fight; 
Born  of  the  blood  that  our  forbears  shed 
To  raise  your  mother,  the  Flag,  o'erhead. 

And  now  you've  come,  in  this  frenzied  day, 
To  speak  from  a  window — to  speak  and  say 
"I  am  the  voice  of  a  soldier-son 
Gone  to  be  gone  till  the  victory's  won. 

"I  am  the  flag  of  the  Service,  sir; 
The  flag  of  his  mother — I  speak  for  her 
Who  stands  by  my  window  and  waits  and  fears, 
But  hides  from  the  others  her  unwept  tears. 

"I  am  the  flag  of  the  wives  who  wait 

For  the  safe  return  of  a  martial  mate, 

A  mate  gone  forth  where  the  war  god  thrives 

To  save  from  sacrifice  other  men's  wives. 

"I  am  the  flag  of  the  sweethearts  true; 
The  often  unthought  of — the  sisters,  too; 
I  am  the  flag  of  a  mother's  son 
And  won't  come  down  till  the  victory's  won!" 


155 


Dear  little  flag  in  the  window  there, 
Hung  with  a  tear  and  a  woman's  prayer ; 
Child  of  Old  Glory,  born  with  a  star- 
On,  what  a  wonderful  flag  you  are! 


A  SMALL  TOWN   SPORT 

DAMON    RUNYON 
IN    THE   HERALD    AND    EXAMINER,    CHICAGO 

In  this  piece  of  work  Mr.  Runyon  presents  a  good  specimen  of  a 
large  class,  a  young  fellow  who  was  going  the  trifling  way  to  the  Ever- 
lasting Bonfire  when  the  war  caught  him  up  and  made  a  man  of  him. 
Thousands  of  such  cases,  before  the  war  little  better  than  waste  human 
material,  went  out  to  fight,  and  found  themselves,  and  made  good, 
and  came  home  sobered,  serious  men,  worthy  to  stand  among  those 
to  whom  the  nation's  destinies  were  confided. 

SON   o'   ol'   Miz   McAuliffe,   the   widder   o'   Box-Car 
Jack, 
An'  ol'  time  shack  on  the  Santa  Fe,  who  run  to  Dodge 

and  back. 
He  was  killed  in  a  wreck  at  La  Junta,  and  he  left  the 

wife  and  boy — 

A  kid  knee-high  to  a  hop-toad,  and  tagged  by  the  name  o'. 
Roy. 

This  Roy  was  sort  o'  onery,  and  he  never  would  go  to 

school. 
He  spent  the  most  o'  childhood  days  in  learnin'  the  game 

o'  pool. 
His  shoulders  grew  somewhat  rounded,  and  his  chest  it 

grew  rather  thin — 
But,  gosh,  he  grew  to  a  marvel  at  knockin'  them  pool 

balls  in! 


156 

Pool-shootin'  Roy,  we  called  him,  and  many  a  night  I've 

set 

Watchin'  him  clean  the  table,  and  puffin'  his  cigaret. 
Sleeves  rolled  up  to  the  elbow,  and  playin'  so  ca'm  and 

cool — 
If  ever  a  lad  was  born  for  a  thing,  he  \vas  born  for  playin' 

this  pool! 

Fifteen  balls  was  a  cinch  for  him — fifteen  balls  from  the 

break  ; 
One   ball   loose   from   the  bunch   a   bit,    and   the  whole 

darned   rack  he'd  take. 
He  was  great  on  a  combination,  and  great  on  a  cut-shot, 

too — 
He'd  make  those  pool  balls  talk  to  him  when  he  started 

handlin'  a  cue! 

And  some  of  us  thought  he'd  be  champeen,  but  every  one 
didn't  agree, 

For  Doctor  Wilcox  wanted  to  bet  he'd  die  of  the  old 
T.  B. 

But  the  war  it  settled  the  question,  for  the  first  of  our 
kids  to  go 

Was  Pool-Shootin'  Roy  McAulifre — our  poolrooms  suf- 
fered a  blow. 

What  is  that  thing  the  Frenchmen  give  to  a  good  game 

fightin    boy? 
Say  it  again — the  Croix  de  Guerre?    Well,  that's  what 

they  give  to  Roy. 
It  seems  fifteen  Germans  were  on  him,  and  handlin'  him 

rather  mean, 
When  he  got  a  machine  gun  to  workin   and  pocketed  the 

ivhole  fifteen! 


157 


SOMEWHERE  IN  FRANCE 

LE   ROY   C.   HENDERSON 

IN    CARTOONS   MAGAZINE 
Permission   to   reproduce   in   this  book 

C  HE  stands  alone  beside  the  gate, 

^     Where  oft  with  him  she  stood  before, 

And  seems  to  hear  his  voice  relate 

Life's  sweetest  story  o'er  and  o'er; 
A  hand  she  feels  upon  her  own, 

Unconsciously  a  tender  glance 
She  gives,  then  starts  and  stands  alone, 

The  lover  sleeps — Somewhere  in  France. 

She  could  have  kept  him  if  she  would — 

His  heart  and  soul  were  all  her  own — 
But  true  love  knew  and  understood 

That  Honor  is  its  own  true  throne; 
She  heard  the  bugles'  blaring  sound 

And  whispered — "Go  and  take  your  chance." 
There  'mid  the  scenes  of  war  he  found 

Eternal  peace — Somewhere  in  France. 

She  knows  not  where  that  spot  may  be — 

On  barren  plain,  in  hidden  dell, 
On  wooded  hill,  beside  the  sea — 

The  lips  that  would  will  never  tell ; 
She  knows  not  what  his  last  words  were, 

The  thoughts  that  come  with  Death's  advance, 
And  yet,  she  feels  they  were  of  her, 

Those  last  fond  thoughts — Somewhere  in  France. 


158 


THE    SERVICE    FLAG 

J.  E.  EVANS 
IN  THE  SOVEREIGN  VISITOR 

CAY,  pa!    What  is  a  service  flag? 

L  see  them  everywhere. 
There's  little  stars  sewed  on  them; 

What  are  they  doing  there? 
Sometimes  there's  lots  of  little  stars, 

And  sometimes  just  a  few. 
Poof  Widow  Jones  has  only  one — 

I  saw  her  crying,  too. 

My  darling  boy,  those  little  stars 

Upon  a  field  of  white, 
Are  emblems  of  our  glorious  boys 

Enrolling  for  the  right. 
The  border,  as  you  see,  is  red, 

Which  represents  their  blood; 
The  stars  are  blue,  the  heavenly  hue; 

The  white  is  always  good. 

Each  star  you  see  means  some  brave  boy 

Has  left  his  hearth  and  home 
And  gone  to  fight  for  Freedom's  cause 

Wherever  he  may  roam. 
So  when  you  see  a  lot  of  stars 

Lift  up  your  heart  with  joy, 
And  when  you  see  a  single  one 

Pray  for  some  mother's  boy. 

They  go  away,  those  gallant  lads, 
Across  the  wreck-strewn  sea; 

They  go  to  pledge  their  country's  faith 
For  God  and  liberty. 


159 


The  Stars  and  Stripes  they  bear  aloft 

To  join  the  British  flag, 
And,  with  the  colors  of  brave  France, 

They  mean  to  end  "Der  Tag." 
And  soon,  my  boy,  that  service  flag, 

Born  in  the  nation's  heart, 
Will  show  the  world  that,  when  unfurled, 

We  proudly  take  our  part. 


"HEARTS  ARE  TOUCHING" 

"DOEMS  need  not  be  rhymed,  nor  wrought  in  verses. 
This  brave  and  touching  one  occurred  in  a  letter  writ- 
ten by  a  French  schoolgirl: 

"It  was  only  a  little  river ;  almost  a  brook ;  it  was 
called  the  Yser.  One  could  talk  from  one  side  to  the 
other  without  raising  one's  voice,  and  the  birds  could  fly 
over  it  with  one  sweep  of  their  wings.  And  on  the  two 
banks  there  were  millions  of  men,  the  one  toward  the 
other,  eye  to  eye.  But  the  distance  which  separated  them 
was  greater  than  the  stars  in  the  sky ;  it  was  the  distance 
which  separates  right  from  injustice. 

"The  ocean  is  so  vast  that  the  sea  gulls  do  not  dare 
to  cross  it.  During  seven  days  and  seven  nights  the  great 
steamships  of  America,  going  at  full  speed,  drive  through 
the  deep  waters  before  the  lighthouses  of  France  come 
into  view;  but  from  one  side  to  the  other,  hearts  are 
touching." 


(60 


MEN   OF  THE  BLOOD  AND  MIRE 

DANIEL  M.  HENDERSON 

IN  EVERYBODY'S  MAGAZINE 

Permission  to  reproduce  in  this  book 

whom  the  draft  rejected; 
We  who  stay  by  the  stuff; 
We  who  measure  our  manhood 

And  find  that  it  isn't  enough  ; 
We  who  are  gray  and  burdened; 
We  whom  the  trades  require — 
Will  you  permit  us  to  hail  you, 
Men  of  the  Blood  and  Mire? 

We  of  the  thundering  forum; 

We  of  the  pen  and  press; 
We  who  are  pouring  our  utmost 

Into  our  land's  success; 
We  of  the  Cross  and  Triangle, 
Lofty  in  deed  and  desire — 
God,  how  we  shrivel  before  you, 

Men  of  the  Blood  and  Mire! 

Aye,  we  are  square  with  conscience — • 

We  are  reservists  all; 
Aye,  when  your  ranks  are  gaping, 

We  will  fight  where  you  fall; 
Yet,  while  we  wait,  your  altar 

Flames  in  the  gas  and  fire — 
We  are  the  shade  of  your  glory, 

Men  of  the  Blood  and  Mire! 


151 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  DEAD 

J.  H.   M.   ABBOTT 
IN  THE  LONDON  OUTLOOK 

Large  numbers  of  Australian  and  New  Zealand  volunteers  are 
already  on  the  water  bound  for  Vancouver,  en  route  for  Europe. — Para- 
graph of  War  News,  1915. 

,  Land  of  Ours,  hear  the  song  we  make  for  you — 
Land    of    yellow    wattle    bloom,    land    of    smiling 

Spring — 

Hearken  to  the  after  words,  land  of  pleasant  memories, 
Shea-oaks  of  the  shady  creeks,  hear  the  song  we  sing. 
For  we  lie  quietly,  underneath  the  lonely  hills, 
Where  the  land  is  silent,  where  the  guns  have  ceased  to 

boom, 

Here  we  are  waiting,  and  shall  wait  for  Eternity — 
Here  on  the  battle-fields,  where  we  found  our  doom. 

Spare  not  thy  pity — Life  is  strong  and  fair  for  you — 
City  by  the  waterside,  homestead  on  the  plain. 
Keep  ye  remembrance,  keep  ye  a  place  for  us — 
So  all  the  bitterness  of  dying  be  not  vain. 
Oh,  be  ye  mindful,  mindful  of  our  honor's  name; 
Oh,  be  ye  careful  of  the  word  ye  speak  in  jest — 
For  we  have  bled  for  you ;  for  we  have  died  for  you — 
Yea,  we  have  given,  we  have  given  our  best. 

Life  that  we  might  have  lived,  love  that  we  might  have 

loved, 

Sorrow  of  all  sorrows,  we  have  drunk  thy  bitter  lees. 
Speak  thou  a  word  to  us,  here  in  our  narrow  beds — 
Word  of  thy  mourning  lands  beyond  the  Seas. 
Lo,  we  have  paid  the  price,  paid  the  cost  of  Victory. 
Do  not  forget,  when  the  rest  shall  homeward  come — 


162 

Mother  of  our  childhood,  sister  of  our  manhood  days, 
Loved  of  our  heavy  hearts,  whom  we  have  left  alone. 

Hark  to  the  guns — pause  and  turn,  and  think  of  us — 
Red  was  our  life's  blood,  and  heavy  was  the  cost. 
But  ye  have  Nationhood,  but  ye  are  a  people  strong — 
Oh,  have  ye  love  for  the  brothers  ye  have  lost? 
Oh,  by  the  blue  skies,  clear  beyond  the  mountain  tops, 
Oh,  by  the  dear,  dun  plains  where  we  were  bred, — 
What  be  your  tokens,  tokens  that  ye  grieve  for  us, 
Tokens  of  your  Sorrowing  for  we  that  be  Dead? 


THE  REFUGEES 

W.    G.    S. 
IN  THE  LONDON  SPECTATOR 

T)AST  the  marching  men,  where  the  great  road  runs, 

Out  of  burning  Ypres  the  pale  women  came: 
One  was  a  widow  (listen  to  the  guns!)  — 
She  wheeled  a  heaped-up  barrow.    One  walked  lame 
And  dragged  two  little  children  at  her  side 
Tired  and  coughing  with  the  dust. 

The  third 

Nestled  a  dead  child  on  her  breast  and  tried 
To  suckle  him.     They  never  spoke  a  word. 

So  they  came  down  along  the  Ypres  road. 

A  soldier  stayed  his  mirth  to  watch  them  pass, 

Turned  and  in  silence  helped  them  with  their  load, 

And  led  them  to  a  field  and  gave  them  bread. 

I  saw  them  hide  their  faces  in  the  grass 

And  cry,  as  women  might  when  Christ  was  dead. 


163 


SONG  OF  THE  WINDS 

MARY  LANIER  MAGRUDER 

IN  THE  SATURDAY  EVENING  POST 

Permission  to  reproduce  in  this  book 

CONG  of  the  west  wind  whispering — listen 

The  murmuring  waves  of  the  golden  grain ; 
The  lisp  of  rivers  that  ripple  and  glisten, 
Filled  to  brim  with  the  night's  wild  rain, 
Seaward  going  to  come  again, 
Pouring  the  torrents  of  spring  on  the  acres 
Fallow  and  fertile.     The  wide  world's  bread 
Harvested  now  by  the  busy  rakers, 
Gleaners  afield  when  the  dawn  is  red ; 
Wind  of  the  west,  where  the  leaning  sheaves 
Darken  the  shadows  as  daylight  leaves 
Or  heap  the  granary  under  the  eaves, 
Sing  the  song  to  us  over  and  over, 
Happy  harvests  and  multifold, 
Sweeter  than  breath  of  thyme  or  clover, 
Western  wind  over  sheaves  of  gold ! 

Wind  of  the  south  from  the  wide  prairie, 

Mesquite  barren  and  cactus  lean, 

Where  the  fleet  herds  browse  and  the  coyote  wary 

Pierces  the  night  with  a  note  too  keen ; 

And  the  brown  plain's  grass  grows  all  between. 

Fields  where  the  wild  sage  blows  and  billows, 

Purple  waves  on  a  sea  of  jade; 

And  the  bending  cottonwoods  touch  the  willows, 

And  the  water  holes  glimmer  in  light  and  shade. 

Then  swinging  up  from  a  land  of  drouth, 

And  on  by  the  bayous  flowing  south, 


164 


There  by  the  wandering  river's  mouth, 
White  is  the  sod  with  the  cotton  blossom, 
Whiter  the  lint  that  has  broken  its  pod 
And  lies  like  snow  on  the  sad  earth's  bosom, 
Fresh  and  fair  from  the  hand  of  God. 

Wind  of  the  north  from  the  long  lakes  sweeping 
Down  to  the  meadows  and  hills  of  corn, 
Over  the  creeks  where  the  perch  are  leaping, 
And  the  mill  wheels  hum  at  the  break  of  morn ; 
Hills  where  the  clover  is  newly  shorn ; 
And  sharply  pungent  as  old-world  gorse  is 
The  hay  that  the  wagons  have  hurried  home ; 
And  under  the  steady  feet  of  the  horses 
The  furrows  grow  in  the  loose  black  loam. 
And  ever  the  amber  tassels  seize 
The  wings  of  every  riotous  breeze 
To  fling  gonfalons  of  golden  sleaze, 
Silken  and  soft,  to  the  earth's  far  borders : 
"August  heat  but  hastens  the  days 
When  the  hungry  herds  and  the  empty  larders 
Shall  all  be  filled  with  the  Indian's  maize." 

Wind  of  the  east — ah,  east  wind  blowing 
Long,  long  leagues  from  a  land  o'erseas; 
Empty  hands  that  can  know  no  sowing, 
Passionate  pleading  hands  are  these — 
Palms  outstretched  to  us  over  the  seas; 
Ah,  the  heart  of  France  is  a  thing  to  cherish! 
But  her  werewolf,  Hunger,  cannot  be  slain 
Till  out  of  our  largess,  lest  she  perish, 
We  hasten  the  caravels  of  blessed  grain. 


-165 

Till  the  sea-shark's  teeth  forever  are  drawn, 

And  the  dread  great  guns  are  stilled  at  the  dawn, 

We  must  hold  high  courage  and  carry  on. 

So  winds  of  the  north,  south,  west,  your  treasure — 

Corn  and  cattle  and  golden  grain — 

Shall  crowd  the  ships  to  their  fullest  measure, 

And  the  bread  thus  cast  will  return  again! 


"WHAT   THINK   YE?" 

W.  A.  BRISCOE 

IN  THE  UNITED  EMPIRE  MAGAZINE 
(Journal  of  the  Royal  Colonial  Institute,  London) 


are  we  fighting  for,  men  of  my  race, 
And  the  best  of  us  dying  for? 
For  wealth  —  or  profit  —  or  power  —  or  fame? 
Or  a  statesman's  lust?   or  a  monarch's  name? 
Or  for  aught  that  our  sons  of  sons  could  blame 
Did  we  throw  the  dice  of  war? 

Why  are  ye  weeping,  sisters  of  mine, 

With  a  mien  so  proud  and  brave? 
Do  ye  weep  because  of  the  utter  woe? 
Are  ye  proud  because  ye  would  have  it  so, 
Though  Fate  should  have  dealt  you  the  final  blow 

And  there's  nothing  to  mark  the  grave? 

What  are  we  fighting  for,  women  and  men, 

And  the  best  of  us  dying  for? 
It  was  just  because  we  had  signed  our  name, 
And  the  Briton's  creed  is  to  honor  the  same: 
It  was  only  for  that,  and  our  own  fair  fame 

We  took  up  the  gage  of  war. 


166 

THE    MAN    BEHIND 

DOUGLAS   MALLOCH 

IN  THE  AMERICAN  LUMBERMAN 

Permission   to  reproduce  in  this  book 

r  HE  band  is  on  the  quarter-deck,  the  starry  flag  un- 
furled; 

The  air  is  mad  with  music  and  with  cheers. 
The  ship  is  bringing  home  to  us  the  homage  of  the  world 

And  writing  new  our  name  upon  the  years. 
Her  officer  is  on  the  bridge;  we  greet  him  with  hurrahs; 

But  some  one  says,  "Not  he  the  glory  won; 
Not   he   alone  who  wears  the  braid,   deserves  the   loud 

applause, 

Oh,  don't  forget  the  man  behind  the  gun!" 
'Tis  said  that  to  embattled  seas  our  ship  sailed  forth  at 

dawn, 

Unheeding  shot,  unheeding  hidden  mine ; 
And   through   the   thunders   of   the   fight   went   steaming 

bravely  on, 

The  nation's  floating  fortress  on  the  brine. 
And  never  throbbing  engine  stopped,  nor  parted  plate  or 

seam 

In  all  that  bloody  day  from  sun  to  sun ; 
The  good  ship  sang  her  battle  cry   in  hissing  clouds  of 

steam 

To  cheer  anew  the  man  behind  the  gun. 
I  look  upon  her  shining  bore,  her  engine's  pulsing  heart, 

I  look  upon  her  bulwarks  shaped  of  steel; 
I  know  there  is  another  art,  as  great  as  gunner's  art, 

That  makes  the  world  at  arms  in  homage  kneel. 
This  ship,  defying  shot  and  shell,  defying  winds  and  seas, 

Is  fruit  of  honest  labor,  rightly  done; 
The  man  who  built  the  ship,  my  lads,  remember  him,  for 

he's 
The  man  behind  the  man  behind  the  gun ! 


167 


HERE    AT   VERDUN 

CHESTER  M.  WRIGHT 

T   STAND  on  a  peak  at  Verdun — a  scarred,  torn  peak 

of  hope  and  death. 

Far  under  my  feet  run  the  mystic  passages  of  Fort  Sou- 
ville. 

I  strain  my  eyes  to  look  over  a  great  field  where  men 
have  swayed  in  the  death  lock  with  eternity. 

Ahead  and  to  the  right  and  left  stretch  fifteen  kilometres 
gaping  with  wounds,  each  shell  hole  a  pit  of  death,  a  hid- 
eous mark  left  by  the  scourge  of  despotism. 

Ahead  is  that  foul  stretch  from  which  came  and  still 
come  the  hordes  of  tyranny,  with  breath  of  poison  and 
sting  of  contamination. 

Behind  is  ruin.  Never  was  such  ruin.  A  blight,  a 
torture,  a  world  pain,  piercing  and  cruel. 

And  yet  behind  is  hope.  Behind  are  the  legions  of  lib- 
erty, the  soldiers  of  our  children's  freedom. 

Behind  are  the  endless  legions,  coming,  coming,  com- 
ing. Behind  are  the  veteran  legions  of  France  and  Britain. 
Behind  are  the  countless  legions  of  America,  coming,  com- 
ing, coming — a  brown  ribbon  of  promise  stretching  across 
the  sea  to  the  shrine  of  Liberty ! 

Here  where  these  jagged  slashes  in  the  yellow  earth 
have  formed  a  glorious  tomb  for  three  hundred  thousand 
gallant  French — here  is  the  testing  ground  of  our  destiny. 
Here  they  have  held  for  us  our  heritage !  Here  they  have 
perished  in  the  eternal  splendor  of  self-sacrifice  for  us! 
Here  is  their  borderland — and  ours! 

Here  they  have  written  with  their  ebbing  blood  the 
slogan  that  has  thrilled  the  world — "They  shall  not  pass!" 

The  gaunt  and  sinister  craters,  one  merging  into  the 
ragged  rim  of  another,  the  bits  of  shell,  the  battered  hel- 


168 

mets,  broken  guns,  ill-assorted  refuse  of  combat — each 
shattered  particle  a  marker  for  some  valiant  soul  "gone 
west"  in  service  of  humanity. 

Here,  over  this  land  glorified  by  a  nobility  of  deed 
than  which  there  has  been  no  more  exalted,  must  our  war 
be  waged.  Out  of  this  hallowed  ground  comes  the  call 
of  those  who  have  given  of  their  best — the  call  to  our 
great  land  for  Old  Glory's  best! 

There  will  come  to  us  wounds  that  will  rack  our  bodies 
and  drain  the  coursing  blood  of  our  vibrant  veins.  There 
will  come  to  us  the  aching  pain  of  suffering  and  loss — 
here  on  these  red  fields  of  France.  But  we  will  save 
our  souls  and  our  nation's  soul!  And  we  will  save  our 
heritage  and  give  to  the  billions  of  the  world  the  right 
to  theirs. 

So  the  brown  ribbon  of  youth  winds  across  the  sea — to 
Verdun  and  to  the  long,  thin  lines  on  either  side.  Here 
will  we  prove  our  right  to  life  and  liberty! 

Brown  ribbon  of  promise! 

Hoping,  longing,  wounded  France ! 

Brown  ribbon  of  youth  and  high  resolve! 

Brown  ribbon  of  Liberty! 

Here  at  Verdun! 


169 


THE  ANXIOUS  ANTHEMIST 

GUY  FORRESTER  LEE 
IN  THE  CHICAGO  SUNDAY  TRIBUNE 

Written  when   the  Allied  armies   were  chasing  the  Germans   across 
the  fields  of  France  and  Flanders,  in   the  summer  of  1918. 

T   SIT   down   to  write   a  poem  of   our   fighting  men's 

renown, 
And  I  scarce  get  fairly  started  when  they  take  another 

town. 

A  British  commentator's  praise  I  versify,  and  then 
A  Frenchman  up  and  multiplies  the  happy  words  by  ten. 
The  cable  service  headlines  say  the  Yankees  swat  the  Hun, 
But  ere  I  get  a  jingle  framed  they've  got  more  on  the  run. 
I'd  like  to  be  their  Boswell  in  a  khaki-lauding  gem, 
But  darn  those  doughboys'  peppy  hides — I  can't  keep  up 

with  them ! 
It  tickles  me  quite  some  to  hear  of  how  they're  spreading 

Teuts 
Around  the  landscape,  and  I'll  say  their  ways  and  means 

are  beauts ; 

The  Fritzian  din  of  "Kamerad"  is  drowning  out  the  shells 
As  U.  S.  shockers  shock  the  shockers  with  their  own  pet 

hells. 

I  want  the  good  work  to  go  on,  but  I  have  one  request 
To  make  of  them  before  they  lay  the  kaiser  out  to  rest, 
And  that  is  this:  Don't  stop  your  war;  continue  till 

you've  won, 
But  kindly  take  a  lay-off  till  I  get  this  anthem  done! 


170 


A   RIDE   IN    FRANCE 

"O.  C.  PLATOON" 

IN  THE  MANCHESTER   (ENGLAND)    GUARDIAN 

'T'ROTTING  the  roan  horse 

Over  the  meadows, 
Purple  of  thistles, 

Purple  of  dover; 
Over  the  clay-brown  path, 

All  through  the  grass-lands, 
Glory  of  meadow  flowers, 

Over!    Come  over! 


On  to  the  highway  winding  o'er  the  hill, 
White  willow-bordered,  grassy-banked; 
On  through  a  village  ruined  and  broken. 
Grass  grows  in  the  rubble-heaps, 
Poppies  fill  the  courtyards, 
Swallows  build  in  broken  walls, 
And  everything  is  still. 


While  at  the  corner — walk,  O  horse  of  mine, 

A  Christ  hangs  from  a  crucifix  beside  a  broken  shrine. 


On  to  the  path  at  the  side  of  the  white  road, 
Cantering,  galloping,  breasting  the  rise ; 

Any  road,  every  road,  each  is  the  right  road, 
Facing  the  east,  the  sun  in  my  eyes. 


Trotting  the  roan  horse 
Over  the  meadows, 


171 


Purple  of  thistles, 

Purple  of  clover; 
Over  the  clay-brown  path, 

Back  through  the  grass-lands, 
All  through  the  meadow  flowers; 

Over!    Come  over! 


THERE  WILL  BE  DREAMS  AGAIN 

MABEL  HILLYER  EASTMAN 

IN  MUNSEY'S  MAGAZINE 
Permission  to  reproduce  in  this  book 

INHERE  will  be  dreams  again!   The  grass  will  spread 

Her  velvet  verdure  over  earth's  torn  breast; 
By  ragged  shard,  half-hid,  where  rust  runs  red, 
The  soaring  lark  in  spring  will  build  her  nest. 


There  will  be  dreams  again!   The  primrose  pale 

Will  shelter  where  the  belching  guns  plowed  deep; 

The  trees  will  whisper,  and  the  nightingale 
Chant  golden  monodies  where  heroes  sleep. 

There  will  be  dreams  again !   The  stars  look  down 
On  youthful  lovers — oh,  first  love,  how  sweet! 

And  men  will  wed,  and  childish  laughter  crown 
Life's  awe-compelling  miracle  complete. 

There  will  be  dreams  again !   Oh,  thou  forlorn 
That  crumbling  trench  or  the  slow  heaving  sea 

Hath  snatched  thy  dead — oh,  pray  thee,  do  not  mourn! 
There  will  be  dreams — thy  loved  shall  come  to  thee! 


THE    BOY    NEXT    DOOR 

S.    E.    RISER 

IN  THE  SATURDAY  EVENING  POST 
Permission  to  reproduce  in  this  book 

rT'HERE  used  to  be  a  boy  next  door 

Whom  I  often  have  longed  to  throttle; 
I've  wished  %a  thousand  times  and  more 

That  he  had  died  while  "on  the  bottle"! 
Oft  in  the  past  it  has  been  hard 

For  me  to  check  my  inclination, 
When  he  had  cluttered  up  our  yard, 

To  hand  him  heavy  castigation. 

With  freckles  on  his  tilted  nose 

And  ears  that  far  in  space'  protruded, 
He  was  not  one,  as  heaven  knows, 
To  whom  I  in  my  prayers  alluded. 

Derisively  he  showed  his  tongue 

And  scorned  the  warnings  wrhich  I  gave  him, 

But  now  I  list  myself  among 

The  ones  who  pray  the  Lord  to  save  him. 

How  vividly  I  can  recall 

Him  at  the  window,  making  faces ; 
I  used  to  think  that  in  him  all 

The  impish  traits  had  lurking  places. 
He  stole  the  green  fruit  from  my  trees, 

Not  caring  how  it  might  affect  him; 
Today  he's  fighting  overseas, 

And  may  the  God  of  hosts  protect  him! 

From  childhood  into  youth  he  passed, 
And  then  my  little  garden  flourished; 

And  still  his  friendship  was  not  classed 
Among  the  treasures  which  I  nourished. 

He  tortured  first  a  slide  trombone, 


173 


And  next  he  tried  a  squeaky  fiddle ; 
His  voice  took  on  a  raucous  tone 

That  used  to  rasp  me  down  the  middle. 

How  soldierly  our  lad  appeared 

When  with  his  comrades  he  departed! 
I  wonder  if  he  knew  I  cheered, 

Or  guessed  that  I  was  heavy-hearted. 
If  I  have  damned  him  heretofore 

I  now  retract  each  foul  aspersion ; 
God  bless  the  boy  who  lived  next  door, 

And  used  to  be  my  pet  aversion! 

THE   FLAG 

EDWARD    A.    MORTON 
IN   POPULAR  EDUCATOR 

Y  do  I  love  our  flag?   Ask  why 
Flowers  love  the  sunshine.     Or,  ask  why 
The  needle  turns  with  eager  eye 
Toward  the  great  stars  in  northern  sky. 

I  love  Old  Glory,  for  it  waved 

Where  loyal  hearts  the  Union  saved. 

I  love  it,  since  it  shelters  me 

And  all  most  dear,  from  sea  to  sea. 

I  love  it,  for  it  bravely  flies 

In  freedom's  cause,  'neath  foreign  skies. 

I  love  it  for  its  blessed  cheer, 
Its  starry  hopes  and  scorn  of  fear; 
For  good  achieved  and  good  to  be 
To  us  and  to  humanity. 

It  is  the  people's  banner  bright, 
Forever  guiding  toward  the  light ; 
Foe  of  the  tyrant,  friend  of  right, 
God  give  it  leadership  and  might! 


174 


THE   WAR    HORSE 

LIEUT.    L.    FLEMING,    B.    E.    F.,    FRANCE 

Shortly  after  the  verses  here  following  were  received  from  France 
by  the  American  Red  Star  Animal  Relief,  Lieutenant  Fleming  fell  in 
action.  His  voice,  coming  to  us  as  from  a  plane  of  life  where  dumb 
creatures  do  not  suffer,  is  a  call  to  civilization  to  do  its  duty  by  the 
animals  whose  kind  were  silent  heroes  of  the  war. 

HEN  the  shells  are  bursting  round, 

Making  craters  in  the  ground, 
And  the  rifle  fire's  something  awful  cruel, 
When  you  'ear  them  in  the  night 
(My  Gawd!  it  makes  you  fight!) 
An'  yer  thinks  of  them  poor  souls  agoing  'ome, 
When  you  'ear  the  Sergeant  shout 
"Get  y'r  respirators  out," 
Then  you  looks  and  sees  a  cloud  of  something  white. 

The  gas  is  coming  on 

An'  yer  knows  before  it's  gone 

That  the  'orse  wots  with  you  now  won't  be  by  then ; 
Yer  loves  him  like  yer  wife 
An'  yer  wants  to  save  'is  life, 

But  there  ain't  no  respirators,  not  for  them. 
I  was  standing  by  'is  side 
On  the  night  my  old  'orse  died. 

An'  I  shan't  forget  'is  looks  towards  the  last. 
'E  was  choking  mighty  bad, 
An'  'is  eyes  was  looking  mad, 

An'  I  seed  that — 'e — was  dying — dying  fast. 

An'  I  want  to  tell  yer  'ow 
It's  the  'orses  gets  us  through, 

For  they  strains  their  blooming  'earts  out  when 

they're  pressed. 
We  was  galloping  like  'ell 


175 


When  a  bullet  'its  old  Bill, 

I  c'd  see  the  blood  a-streaming  down  'is  face. 
It  'ad  got  'im  in  the  'ead, 
But  'e  stuck  to  it  and  led 
Till  we  comes  to  "Action  right," 
An'  then  'e  fell. 

I  'adn't  time  to  choose 
I  'ad  to  cut  'im  loose, 

For  'e'd  done  all  'e  c'd  afore  a  gun. 
When  I  looks  at  'im  again 
'E  was  out  of  all  'is  pain, 

An'  I  'opes  'is  soul  will  rest  for  wot  'e  .done. 
If  it  'adn't  been  for  Bill 
We  should  all  'ave  been  in  'ell, 

For  we  only  got  in  action  just  in  time. 
Ain't  it  once  occurred  to  you 
Wot  the  'orses  there  go  through  ? 

They  'elps  to  win  our  fight  an'  does  it  fine. 

When  'is  blood  is  flowing  'ot 
From  a  wound  what  'e's  just  got 

An'  'is  breath  is  coming  'ard  an'  short  an'  thin, 
'E  can  see  the  men  about, 
Getting  water  dealed  out, 

But  not  a  drop  is  brought  to  comfort  'im ; 
Tho  'is  tongue  is  parched  and  dry, 
'E  can  see  the  water  by, 
But  'is  wounds  are  left  to  bleed, 
An'  'e  can't  tell  us  'is  need, 
So  'e's  just  got  to  bear  'is  pain — an'  think. 

There  are  'eroes  big  and  small, 
But  the  biggest  of  them  all 

Is  the  'orse  wot  lays  a-dying  on  the  ground, 


176 


'E  doesn't  cause  no  wars, 
An'  'e's  only  fighting  yours, 

An'  'e  gives  'is  life  for  you  without  a  sound. 
'E  doesn't  get  no  pay, 
Just  some  oats,  and  p'r'aps  some  hay ; 

If  'e's  killed,  no  one  thinks  a  bit  of  'im. 
'E's  just  as  brave  an'  good 
As  any  men  wot  ever  stood, 

But  there's  mighty  little  thought  or  'elp  for  'im. 


PARENTHETICALLY  SPEAKING. 

FROM   THE  CHICAGO  TRIBUNE 

This  delightful  whimsy  will  serve  to  keep  in  mind  the  positively 
affectionate  exchange  of  greetings  between  the  late  President  Carranza 
and  his  friend  Wilhelm,  when  Wilhelm  was  celebrating  what  he  did  not 
know  was  the  last  glorious  birthday  in  his  life. 

,  Carranza  sent  a  cable-  (on  the  kaiser's  birthday) 

gram 
To  the  kaiser  there  at  Pots-   (that's  a  German  palace) 

dam, 
And  it  said,  "Look  out  for  Uncle   (that's  my  northern 

neighbor)   Sam, 
For  he's  coming  after  you!" 

Then  the  kaiser  waved  his  iron   (as  the  papers  have  it) 

hand, 
And  he  danced  a  little  sara-    (that's  a  Turkish  tango) 

band, 
And  he  said:    "I'm  safe  in  Heli-   (in  the  German  sea) 

goland, 
But  I  thank  my  friend  Carranza." 


177 


WORLD   SERIES   OPENED—  BATTER   UP! 

IN  THE  STARS  AND  STRIPES,  A.  E.  F.,  FRANCE 


outfield  is  a-creepin'  in  to  catch  the  kaiser's  pop, 
And   here's  a  southpaw   twirler  with   a   lot  of  vim 

and  hop! 

He's  tossed  the  horsehide   far  away  to  plug  the  hand- 
grenade; 

What  matter  if  on  muddy  grounds  this  game  of  war  is 

played  ? 
He'll  last  through  extra  innings  and  he'll  hit  as  well  as 

pitch  ; 
His  smoking  Texas  leaguers'll  make  the  Fritzies  seek  the 

ditch! 

He's  just  about  to  groove  it  toward  a  ducking  Fritzie's 

bean; 

His  crossfire  is  the  puzzlingest  that  ever  yet  was  seen  ; 
His  spittle  is  a  deadly  thing;  his  little  inshoot  curve 
Will  graze  some  Heinie's  heaving  ribs  and  make  him  lose 

his  nerve. 

Up  in  the  air  he  never  goes;  he  always  cuts  the  plate, 
No  matter  if  the  bleachers  rise  and  start  "The  Hymn 

of  Hate;" 

And  pacifistic  coaching  never  once  has  got  his  goat. 
Just  watch  him  heave  across  the  top  the  latest  Yankee 

note! 

The  Boches  claim  the  Umpire  is  a-sidin'  with  their  nine, 
But  we  are  not  the  boobs  to  fall  for  such  a  phony  line  ; 
We  know  the  game  is  fair  and  square,  decisions  on  the 

level; 
The  only  boost  the  kaiser  gets  is  from  his  pal,  The  Devil  ! 


178 

The  series  now  is  opened,  and  the  band  begins  to  play; 
The  batteries  are  warming  up;  the  crowd  shouts,  "Hip- 
Hurray!" 

The  catcher  is  a-wingin'  'em  to  second,  third  and  first, 
And  if  a  Heinie  tries  to  steal,  he's  sure  to  get  the  worst. 

So  watch  the  southpaw  twirler  in  his  uniform  O.  D. 
Retire  to  the  players'  bench  the  Boches — one,  two,  three! 
He'll  never  walk  a  bloomin'  one,  nor  let  'em  hit  it  out. 
Just  watch  him  make  'em  fan  the  air  and  put  the  Hun 
to   rout ! 

EDITH    CAVELL 

McLANDBURGH  WILSON 

From  Miss  Wilson's  book  entitled  "The  Little  Flag  On  Main  Street," 
published  and  copyright,  1917,  by  The  Macmillan  Company,  New  York. 
Special  permission  to  insert  in  this  book. 

law  and  love  and  mercy 
Was  laid  the  German  curse 
When  to  her  execution 
Was  led  the  British  nurse. 

In  brutal  might  they  thought  her 

Of  help  and  friendship  shorn ; 
John  Brown,  Jeanne  d'Arc,  all  martyrs, 

Companioned  her  that  morn. 

A  harmless,  tender  woman, 

They  took  her  to  her  doom; 
A  dread,  resistless  spirit 

She  rises  from  the  tomb. 

Still  Germany  shall  fear  her, 

For  since  that  bloody  dawn 
Through  all  the  earth  that  trembles 

Her  soul  goes  marching  on! 


179 


TO  SERVE  IS  TO  GAIN 

CHARLES  H.  MACKINTOSH 
IN   LOGGING,   DULUTH 

T-JE  profits  most  who  serves  us  best!" 

Let  each  who  labors,,  lives  and  dies 
Beneath  these  star-bespangled  skies 
Go  write  that  motto  on  his  breast! 

"He  profits  most" — Here  is  no  call 

To  selfish  ease  or  sordid  gain; 

Who  serves  himself  will  serve  in  vain; 
Who  profits  most  must  serve  us  all. 

And  he  has  most  who  gives  the  most, 
Since  what  is  kept  can  but  decay 
— And  Death  still  treads  his  sleepless  way 

Among  our  myriad  human  host. 


THEY   SHALL   RETURN 

J.  LEWIS  MILLIGAN 
IN  THE  TORONTO  GLOBE 

'T'HEY  shall  return  when  the  wars  are  over, 
•*•      When  battles  are  memories  dim  and  far ; 
Where  guns  now  stand  shall  be  corn  and  clover, 
Flowers  shall  bloom  where  the  blood-drops  are. 

They  shall  return  with  laughing  faces, 
Limbs  that  are  lithe  and  hearts  new-born; 

Yea,  we  shall  see  them  in  old  home-places, 
Lovelier  yet  in  the  light  of  morn. 


180 

"TO   THE    IRISH    DEAD" 

BY  ESSEX  EVANS 

The  author  of  these  heart-touching  lines  is  a  Queenslander  of  Welsh 
derivation.  Sir  Herbert  Warren,  K.  C.  V.  O.,  of  the  University  of  Ox- 
ford,  had  this  to  say  of  him  and  of  the  Toast :  "They  say  that  no  one 
but  an  Irishman  understands  Ireland,  that  she  will  listen  to  no  one  but 
an  Irishman.  Wales  is  near  to  her  in  geography  and  in  race.  I  have 
thought  she  perhaps  might  listen  to  a  Welsh  voice.  She  has  one  today, 
now  whispering,  now  ringing,  across  St.  George's  Channel.  Will  she 
heed  it?  Who  knows?" 

nniS  a  green  isle  set  in  a  silver  water, 

A  fairy  isle  where  the  shamrock  grows, 
Land  of  Legend,  the  Dream-Queen's  daughter — 

Out  of  the  Fairies'  hands  she  rose. 
They  touched  her  harp  with  a  tender  sighing, 

A  spirit-song  from  a  world  afar, 
They  touched  her  heart  with  a  fire  undying 

To  fight  and  follow  her  battle-star. 

Too  long,  too  long  thro'  the  grey  years  growing 

Feud  and  faction  have  swept  between 
The  thistledown  and  the  red  rose  blowing, 

And  the  three-fold  leaf  of  the  shamrock  green; 
But  the  seal  of  blood,  ye  shall  break  it  never: 

With  rifles  grounded  and  bare  of  head 
We  drink  to  the  dead  who  live  forever — 

A  silent  toast — To  the  Irish  dead! 


181 


VISION 


DOROTHY  PAUL 
IN  THE  SATURDAY   EVENING   POST 

Permission  to  reproduce  in  this  book 

A  BOVE  the  broken  walls  the  apple  boughs 
•*•  ^   Are  murmurous  with  bees ; 

Again  the  slumbrous  breeze 
Eddies  the  snow  of  drifted  chestnut  flowers, 
And  little  ruffling  winds  go  silverly 

Along  the  poplar  trees. 
They  never  speak  of  it  to  me, 

My  comrades.     Awkward-kind 
I  hear  their  voices  roughen  and  grow  dumb, 

Remembering  I  am  blind — 

But  through  the  dark,  I  know — I  know  the  spring  has 
come 

To  France! 

What  matter  I'll  not  see  beneath  the  wheat 

Red  poppies  burn  again; 

The  gleam  of  April  rain 
Along  the  boulevards ;  the  flower  girls 
With  mignonette  and  pinks  and  clematis; 

Not  see  again  the  Seine 
Slip  under  the  silver  bridges  to  Rouen? 

Ah,  no ;  nor  see 
The  pale  gold  smile  of  buttercups,  that  glorifies 

Gray  ruins  with  bravery 

Heartbreaking,    valiant — the   smile   that   lights   the   eyes 
Of  France! 

For  through  the  sightless  mercy  of  my  days 

White  visions  come  to  me — 

Beyond  the  dark  I  see. 

Not  this  worn,  steadfast  France,  wan,  gallant,  spent, 
With  eyes  burned  haggard  by  the  spirit  of  the  Maid 

And  Charlotte  of  Normandy — 


182 

But  France  triumphant,  high  of  heart, 

Smiling  through  throbbing  drums 
On  Rheims  restored,  Nancy,  Alsace,  Lorraine, 

In  that  new  spring  that  comes — 

The  spring  we  halt  and  blind  and  dead  bring  back  again 
To  France! 


RAIN  ON  YOUR  OLD  TIN  HAT     . 

LIEUT.    J.   H.    WICKERSHAM 

Written  at  the  battle  front  in  France  and  sent  to  his  mother, 
Mrs.  W.  E.  Damon.  Lieutenant  Wickersham  was  killed  in  action 
September  14,  1918. 

HTHE  mist  hangs  low  and  quiet  on  a  ragged  line  of 

hills, 

There's  a  whispering  of  wind  across  the  flat; 
You'd  be  feeling  kind  of  lonesome  if  it  wasn't  for  one 

thing — 
The  patter  of  the  raindrops  on  your  old  tin  hat. 

An'  you  just  can't  help  a-figuring — sitting  here  alone — 
About  this  war  and  hero  stuff  and  that, 

And    you    wonder    if    they    haven't    sort    of    got    things 

twisted  up, 
While  the  rain  keeps  up  its  patter  on  your  old  tin  hat. 

When  you  step  off  with  the  outfit  to  do  your  little  bit, 
You're  simply  doing  what  you're  s'posed  to  do — 

And  you  don't  take  time  to  figure  what  you  gain  or  what 

you  lose, 
It's  the  spirit  of  the  game  that  brings  you  .through. 


183 

But  back  at  home  she's  waiting,  writing  cheerful   little 

notes, 

And  every  night  she  offers  up  a  prayer 
And  just  keeps  on  a-hoping  that  her  soldier  boy  is  safe — 
.   The  mother  of  the  boy  who's  over  there. 

And,  fellows,  she's  the  hero  of  this  great  big  ugly  war, 
And  her  prayer  is  on  that  wind  across  the  flat; 

And  don't  you  reckon  maybe  it's  her  tears,  and  not  the 

rain, 
That's  keeping  up  the  patter  on  your  old  tin  hat? 


THE  ARMED  LINER 

H.  SMALLEY  SARSON 
IN  THE  POETRY  REVIEW 

The  dull  gray  paint  of  war 

Covering  the  shining  brass  and  gleaming  decks 

That  once  re-echoed  to  the  steps  of  youth. 

That  was  before 

The  storms  of  destiny  made  ghastly  wrecks 

Of  peace,  the  Right  of  Truth. 

Impromptu  dances,  colored  lights  and  laughter, 

Lovers  watching  the  phosphorescent  waves, 

Now  gaping  guns,  a  whistling  shell;  and  after 

So   many  wandering  graves. 


184 


THERE  ARE  CROCUSES  AT  NOTTINGHAM 

WRITTEN  IN  THE  TRENCHES 
Flanders,  spring  of  1917.     Authorship  unknown. 


here  the  dogs  of  war  run  loose, 
Their  whipper-in  is  Death  ; 
Across  the  spoilt  and  battered  fields 

We  hear  their  sobbing  breath. 
The  fields  where  grew  the  living  corn 

Are  heavy  with  our  dead  ; 
Yet  still  the  fields  at  home  are  green 
And  I  have  heard  it  said: 

That— 

There  are  crocuses  at  Nottingham  ! 
Wild  crocuses  at  Nottingham! 
Blue  crocuses  at  Nottingham  ! 
Though  here  the  grass  is  red. 

There  are  little  girls  at  Nottingham 

Who  do  not  dread  the  boche, 
Young  girls  at  school  at  Nottingham 

(Lord!  how  I  need  a  wash!) 
There  are  little  boys  at  Nottingham 

Who  never  hear  a  gun  ; 
There  are  silly  fools  at  Nottingham 

Who  think  we're  here  for  fun. 

When— 

There  are   crocuses  at   Nottingham! 
Young  crocus  buds  at  Nottingham! 
Thousands  of  buds  at  Nottingham 
Ungathered  by  the  Hun. 

But  here  we  trample  down  the  grass 

Into  a  purple  slime  ; 
There  lives  no  tree  to  give  the  birds 

House  room  in  pairing  time. 


185 


We  live  in  holes,  like  cellar  rats, 

But  through  the  noise  and  smell 
I  often  see  those  crocuses 
Of  which  the  people  tell. 

Why- 
There  are  crocuses  at   Nottingham! 
Bright  crocuses  at  Nottingham! 
Real  crocuses  at  Nottingham ! 
Because  we're  here  in  Hell. 

THE  WAR  ROSARY 

NELLIE  HURST 
IN  THE  WESTMINSTER  GAZETTE 

T  KNIT,  I  knit,  I  pray,  I  pray. 

My  knitting  is  my  rosary. 
And  as  I  weave  the  stitches  gray, 

I  murmur  pray'rs  continually. 
Gray  loop,  a  sigh,  gray  knot,  a  wish, 

Gray  row  a  chain  of  wistful  pray'r, 
For  thus  to  sit  and  knit  and  pray— 

This  is  of  war  the  woman's  share. 

And  so  I  knit,  and  thus  I  pray, 

And  keep  repeating  night  and  day, 
May  God  lead  safely  those  dear  feet 

That  soon  shall  wear  the  web  of  gray. 
Now  and  again  a  selfish  strain? 

But  surely  woman  heart  must  yearn, 
And  pray  sometimes  that  she  may  hear 

The  footsteps  that  return. 

But  if,  O  God,  Not  that. 

But  if  it  must  be  sacrifice  complete, 
Then  I  will  trust  that  afterward 

Thou  wilt  guide  home  those  precious  feet. 


186 

WHEN  PRIVATE  MUGRUMS  PARLEY  VOOS 

PVT.   CHARLES   DIVINE 
IN  THE  STARS  AND  STRIPES,  A.E.F.,  FRANCE 

f"   CAN  count  my  francs  an'  santeems — 
•*•     If  I've  got  a  basket  near — 
An'  I  speak  a  wicked  "bon  jour," 

But  the  verbs  are  awful  queer, 
An'  I  lose  a  lot  o'  pronouns 

When  I  try  to  talk  to  you, 
For  your  eyes  are  so  bewitchin' 

I  forget  to  parlay  voo. 

In  your  pretty  little  garden, 

With  the  bench  beside  the  wall, 
An'  the  sunshine  on  the  asters, 

An'  the  purple  phlox  so  tall, 
I  should  like  to  whisper  secrets 

But  my  language  goes  askew — 
With  the  second  person  plural 

For  the' old  familiar  "too." 

In  your  pretty  little  garden 

I  could  always  say  "juh  tame," 
But  it  ain't  so  very  subtle, 

An'  it  ain't  not  quite  the  same 
As  "You've  got  some  dandy  earrings," 

Or  "Your  eyes  are  nice  an'  brown" — 
But  my  adjectives  get  manly 

Right  before  a  lady  noun. 

Those  infinitives  perplex  me; 

I  can  say  you're  "tray  jolee," 
But  beyond  that  simple  statement 

All  my  tenses  don't  agree. 
I  can  make  the  Boche  "comprenney" 

When  I  meet  'em  in  a  trench, 
But  the  softer  things  escape  me 

When  T  try  to  vm  in  French. 


187 


In  your  pretty  little  garden 

Darn  the  idioms  that  dance 
On  your  tongue  so  sweet  and  rapid, 

Ah,  they  hold  me  in  a  trance! 
Though  I  stutter  an'  I  stammer, 

In  your  garden,  on  the  bench, 
Yet  my  heart  is  writin'  poems 

When  I  talk  to  you  in  French. 


MULES 

C.   FOX  SMITH 
IN  LONDON  PUNCH 

Reproduced  by  special  permission  of  the  Proprietors  of  "Punch" 

T   NEVER  would   'ave  done  it  if   I'd  known  what   it 

would  be. 

I  thought  it  meant  promotion  and  some  extra  pay  for  me ; 
I  thought  I'd  miss  a  drill  or  two  with  packs  an'  trenchin' 

tools, 
So  I  said   I'd   'andled  horses — an'  they  set  me  'andlin' 

mules. 

Now  'orses  they  are  'orses,  but  a  mule,  'e  is  a  mule 

(Bit  o'   devil,   bit   o'   monkey,   bit  o'   bloomin'  boundin' 

fool!) 

Oh,  I'm  usin'  all  the  adjectives  I  didn't  learn  at  school 
On  the  prancin',  glancin',  rag-time  dancin'  army  transport 

mule. 

If  I'd  been  Father  Noah  when  the  cargo  walked  aboard, 
I'd  'ave  let  the  bears  an'  tigers  in,  an'  never  spoke  a  word; 
But  I'd  'ave  shoved  a  placard  out  to  say  the  'ouse  was 

full, 
An'  shut  the  ark  up  suddent  when  I  saw  the  army  mule. 


188 

They  buck  you  off  when  ridden,  they  squish  your  leg  when 

led; 
They're  mostly  sittin'  on  their  tail  or  standing  on  their 

'ead  ; 
They  reach  their  yellow  grinders  out  an'  gently  chew 

your  ear, 
An'  their  necks  is  indiarubber  for  attackin'  in  the  rear. 

They're  as  mincin'  when  they're  'appy  as  a  ladies'  ridin' 

school, 
But  when  the  fancy  takes  'em  they're  like  nothin'  but  a 

mule — 
With  the  off  wheels  in  the  gutter  an'  the  near  wheels  in 

the  air, 
An'  a  leg  across  the  traces,  an'  the  driver  Lord  knows 

where. 

They're  'orrid  in  the  stables,  they're  worse  upon  the  road ; 
They'll  bolt  with  any  rider,  they'll  jib  with  any  load; 
But  soon  we're  bound  beyond  the  seas,  an'  when  we  cross 

the  foam 
I  don't  care  where  we  go  to  if  we  leaves  the  mules  at  'ome. 

For  'orses  they  are  'orses,  but  a  mule  'e  is  a  mule 

(Bit  o'   devil,   bit   o'   monkey,   bit  o'   bloomin'   boundin' 

fool!) 

Oh,  I'm  usin'  all  the  adjectives  I  never  learnt  at  school 
On   the   rampin',     rawboned,     cast-steel-jawboned    army 

transport  mule. 


189 


AN  APRIL  SONG 

GEORGE   C.   MICHAEL,   LANCE   CORPORAL,   R.  E. 
(Written    on   leave  at   Stratford-on-Avon. ) 

QRCHARD  land!     Orchard  land! 
^•^  Damson  blossom,  primrose  bloom: 
Avon,  like  a  silver  band 

Winds  from  Stratford   down  to  Broome: 

All  the  orchards  simmer  white 

For  an  April  day's  delight: 

We  have  risen  in  our  might, 

Left  this  land  we  love,  to  fight, 
Fighting  still,  that  these  may  stand, 
Orchard  land!  Orchard  land! 

Running  stream!     Running  stream! 
Ruddy  tench  and  silver  perch: 

Shakespeare  loved  the  water's  gleam 
Sparkling  on  by  Welford  church : 
Water  fay  meets  woodland  gnome 
Where  the  silver  eddies  foam 
Thro'  the  richly  scented  loam: 
We  are  fain  to  see  our  home, 

See  again  thy  silver  gleam, 

Running  stream!     Running  stream! 

Silver  throats!     Silver  throats! 

Piping  blackbird,  trilling  thrush: 

Shakespeare  heard  your  merry  notes; 

Still  you  herald  morning's  blush: 

You  shall  sing  your  anthems  grand 

When  we've  finished  what  He  planned. 

God  will  hear  and  understand. 

God  will  give  us  back  our  land 
Where  the  water-lily  floats, 
Silver  throats!     Silver  throats! 


190 


A  SONG  OF  THE  AIR 

GORDON  ALCHIN 

From  "Oxford  and  Flanders."     B.  H.  Blackwell,  Publishers,  Oxford, 
England.      Special  permission  to  reproduce  in  this  book. 

HT HIS  is  the  song  of  the  Plane— 
•*•      The  creaking,  shrieking  plane, 

The  throbbing,  sobbing  plane, 

And  the  moaning,  groaning  wires: — 

The  engine — missing  again! 

One  cylinder  never  fires! 

Hey   ho!   for  the   Plane! 

This  is  the  song  of  the  Man — 
The  driving,  striving  man, 
The  chosen,  frozen  man: — 
The  pilot,  the  man-at-the-wheel, 
Whose  limit  is  all  that  he  can, 
And  beyond,  if  the  need  is  real! 
Hey  ho!  for  the  Man! 

This  is  the  song  of  the  Gun — 
The  muttering,  stuttering  gun, 
The    maddening,    gladdening    gun : — 
That  chuckles  with  evil  glee 
At  the  last,  long  drive  of  the  Hun, 
With  its  end  in  eternity! 
Hey  ho!  for  the  Gun! 

This  is  the  song  of  the  Air — 
The  lifting,  drifting  air, 
The  eddying,  steadying  air, 
The  wine  of  its  limitless  space: — 
May  it  nerve  us  at  last  to  dare 
Even  death  with  undaunted  face! 
Hey  ho !  for  the  Air ! 


191 


VICTORY! 

S.  J.   DUNCAN-CLARK 

IN  THE  CHICAGO  EVENING  POST,  NOVEMBER  11,  1918 
Permission  to  reproduce  in  this  book 

UT  of  the  night  it  leaped  the  seas — 

The  four  long  years  of  night ! 
"The  foe  is  beaten  to  his  knees, 

And  triumph  crowns  the  fight!" 
It  sweeps  the  world  from  shore  to  shore, 

By  wave  and  wind  'tis  flung, 
It  grows  into   a  mighty   roar 

Of  siren,  bell  and  tongue. 
Where  little  peoples  knelt  in  fear, 

They  stand  in  joy  today; 
The  hour  of  their  redemption  here, 

Their  feet  on  Freedom's  way. 
The  kings  and  kaisers  flee  their  doom, 

Fall    bloody  crown  and  throne! 
Room  for  the  people!   Room!    Make  room! 

They  march  to  claim  their  own! 
Now  God  be  praised  we  lived  to  see 

His  Sun  of  Justice  rise, 
His  Sun  of  Righteous  Liberty, 

To  gladden  all  our  skies! 
And  God  be  praised  for  those  who  died, 

Whate'er  their  clime  or  breed, 
Who,  fighting  bravely  side  by  side, 

A  world  from  thraldom   freed! 
And  God  be  praised  for  those  who,  spite 

Of  woundings  sore   and  deep, 
Survive  to  see  the  Cause  of  Right 

O'er  all  its  barriers  sweep! 
God  and  the  people — This  our  cry! 

O,  God,  thy  peace  we  sing! 
The  peace  that  comes  through  victory, 

And  dwells  where  Thou  art  King. 


192 

THE  HOMECOMING 

LEROY   FOLGE 

Grief  for  a  brother,  an  American  who  was  killed  in  France, 
brought  about  the  suicide  of  the  author  of  this  poem.  The  manuscript 
was  found  beside  his  body.  The  lines  were  published  in  THE  CHICAGO 
TRIBUNE. 

1LJIS  regiment  came  home  today, 
-*--1-   But  Jim,  old  Jim,  he's  still  away. 
I  know,  I  know,  he's  sleeping  there 
Out  on  the  fields  of  France  somewhere. 
And  yet,  I  stood  out  in  the  rain, 
To  watch  the  boys  come  home  again, . 
Just  wishing  that  it  wasn't  true, 
And  that  Jim  would  be  coming,  too. 
Yet,  all  the  while,  I  knew,  I  knew — 

Old  Jim,  he's  gone.    They  tell  me  how 

He  fell  against  the  Huns,  and  now, 

He's  gained  a  sort  of  dignity 

That  somehow  seems  could  never  be; 

For  Jim,  he  was  so  gay  and  free, 

With  never  a  thought  of  greater  weight 

Than  just  to  keep  an  evening  date, 

Or  get  some  cigarets,  perhaps, 

Or  shoot  a  game  or  two  of  craps, 

Or  dance  all  night,  then  drive  all  day 

His  roadster  down  the  speeding  way. 

But,  now,  Jim's  gone,  the  folks  will  say, 

He  was  a  wonder  in  his  day. 

Old  Jim — he  wasn't  old,  you  know — 

I  say  that  for  I  love  him  so — 

Grew  up  with  me,  and  he  and  I 

Would  never  let  a  day  go  by 

That  I  did  not  see  some  plan  begun 

In  which  we  both  would  have  some  fun. 


193 

And  then,  there  comes  that  fateful  day, 
When  our  men  go  to  join  the  fray; 
And  Jim  can  go,  but  I  must  stay. 
"Good-by,  old  top,  if  I'm  not  dead, 
I'll  give  the  Kaiser  hell,"  he  said. 
I  think  he  meant  it,  but — .     Oh,  well, 
He  didn't  give  the  Kaiser  hell. 

Folks  always  said  that  Jim  was  light, 
And  stayed  out  much  too  late  at  night, 
Frivolous  and  never  would, 
Whatever  else  he  did,  make  good. 

Why,  no  one  ever  thought  to  take 
Jim  seriously,  the  reckless  rake! 
But  when  the  time  to  charge  had  come, 
Jim  left  the  trench,  along  with  some 
More  daring  chaps,  and  crawling,  spanned 
The  hell  that  they  call  "No  Man's  Land." 

They  cut  the  tangled  wires  away, 

Then  our  men  charged,   but   there  Jim   lay — 

What  is  it  that  the  Scriptures  say 

About  the  chap  that  offers  up 

His  all,  and  drinks  the  bitter  cup — 

That's  how  I  like  to  think  of  Jim, 

The  glory  that  is  left  of  him. 

THE  CROWN 

HELEN  COMBES 
IN  LESLIE'S  WEEKLY 

RITE  us  your  verse,  oh,  soldier,  tell  us  the  grim, 
red  tale, 

Learned  on  the  field  of  battle,  where  bullets  fell  like  hail. 

Pen  us  the  ghastly  story,  of  thousands  of  slaughtered 
men, 

Till  our  souls  are  sick  with  horror.  And  then,  oh,  sol- 
dier, then, 


194 

Tell  us  in  tender  accents,  how  men  with  hearts  of  gold 
Succored  their  wounded  brothers;  stripped  in  the  biting 

cold 

To  cover  the  dead  and  dying.     Give  us  our  faith  again, 
Our  belief  in  a  God  Almighty,  in  a  Brotherhood  of  Man. 

Paint  us  a  canvas,  soldier,  a  picture  of  fire  and  flame! 

Men,  mad*  with  the  lust  of  killing,  playing  their  grisly 
game! 

Show  us  the  dead-strewn  hillsides,  guarding  the  blood- 
drenched  plain, 

A  picture  of  war's  grim  horrors.  And  then,  oh,  soldier, 
then, 

Draw  us  the  white-capped  nurses,  doctors  with  skilful 
hands, 

Counting  their  lives  as  nothing  when  human  need  de- 
mands 

All  that  they  have  to  offer.  Paint  us  the  women  and 
men 

Who  bring  the  joy  of  living  back  to  our  hearts  again. 

Sing  us  a  song,  oh,  soldier,  chant  in  a  martial  strain, 
Those  who  have  died  in  battle,  those  .who  come  home 

again. 

Call  us  the  mothers  of  heroes,  call  us  the  mothers  of  men, 
Till  our  hearts  are  torn   and  bleeding.     And   then,  oh, 

soldier,  then, 

Play  us  in  minor  cadence,  a  harp  with  a  tautened  string, 

Set  to  a  heavenly  music,  the  songs  the  angels  sing, 

Of  a  world  by  Love  safeguarded,  where  wars  shall  ever 

cease, 
Sing  us  at  last  oh,  soldier,  the  Song  of  Eternal  Peace. 


195 


OUR  SOLDIER  DEAD 

ANNETTE  KOHN 

IN  NEW  YORK  TIMES 
Permission  to  reproduce  in  this  book 

"TN  Flanders  fields,  where  poppies  blow," 
•Mo   France  where  beauteous  roses  grow, 
There  let  them  rest — forever  sleep, 
While  we  eternal  vigil  keep 
With  our  heart's  love — with  our  soul's  pray'r, 
For  all  our  Fallen  "Over  There." 

The  sounding  sea  between  us  rolls 
And  in  perpetual  requiem  tolls — 
Three  thousand  miles  of  cheerless  space 
Lie  'twixt  us  and  their  resting  place; 
'Twas  God  who  took  them  by  the  hand 
And  left  them  in  the  stranger  land. 

The  earth  is  sacred  where  they  fell — 

Forever  on  it  lies  the  spell 

Of  hero  deeds  in  Freedom's  cause, 

And  men  unborn  shall  come  and  pause 

To  say  a  pra)^er,  or  bow  the  head, 

So  leave  these  graves  to  hold  their  dead. 

Let  not  our  sighing  nor  our  tears 
Fall  on  them  through  the  coming  years 
Who  on  the  land,  on  sea,  in  air, 
With  dauntless  courage  everywhere, 
Their  homes  and  country  glorified — 
Stood  to  their  arms  and  smiling  died. 

Great  France  will  leave  no  need   nor  room 
That  we  place  flowers  on  their  tomb—- 
And proudly  o'er  their  resting  place, 
Will  float  forever  in  its  grace, 
O'er  cross,  and  star,  and  symbol  tag, 
Their  own  beloved  country's  flag. 


196 


The  morning  sun  will  gild  with  light, 
The  stars  keep  holy  watch  at  night, 
The  winter  spread  soft  pall  of  snow, 
The  summer  flowers  about  them  grow, 
The  sweet  birds  sing  their  springtime  call 
God's  love  and  mercy  guard  them  all. 

LET  THERE  BE  LIGHT! 

RUTH  WRIGHT   KAUFFMAN 

IN  THE  RED  CROSS  MAGAZINE 

Permission  to  reproduce  in  this  book 

"DLACK  with  the  blackness  of  hell  and  despair 

Village  and  village  and  village  lay  there; 
Never  a  candle  and  never  a  lamp — 
Four  hundred  miles  of  the  enemies'  camp. 

Trains  of  munitions  that  creak  with  their  loads, 
Supplies,  horses,  soldiers  engulfed  by  the  roads; 
An  ambulance  crawling,  a  password,  and  then 
Through  the  shell-shattered  houses  the  marching  of  men. 

Black  with  the  blackness  of  wounds  and  of  death 
The  villages  huddled  there  holding  their  breath ; 
Black — till  there  rang  this  new  order  to  "Cease" — 
"It  is  over! — all  over! — the  war! — there  is  peace! 

Come,  dance  on  the  ruins — Look,  No  Man's  Land  there, 
"Verboten"  for  years,  is  a  world's  thoroughfare; 
And  village  and  village,  remember  the  night, 
But  turn  it  to  day — and  let  there  be  light. 

The  sorrow  unburied,  destruction — how  much! 
Four  hundred  long  miles  for  the  taper  to  touch ! 
The  shades  are  undrawn,  the  lamps  shining  bright; 
It  is  dawn  in  the  darkness;  again  There  Is  Light! 


197 
THE  PRESENT  BATTLE-FIELD 

WRIGHT  FIELD 
IN  THE  STARS  AND  STRIPES 

"THE  war  is  over,  over  there, 
•*•        And  Peace  has  made  her  bow — 
But  the  Battle  of  Verdun  is  on 
At  Jenkins'   Corners  now! 

All's  still  along  the  rippling  Somme, 

Likewise  at  Belleau  Wood — 
But  the  Jenkins'  Corners  Battle  now 

Is  merely  going  good ! 

Now  beaten  into  plowshares  are 

The  swords  once  dripping  wet 
With  human  gore — but  Heinies  fall 

At  Jenkins'  Corners  yet! 

The  smoke  of  cannon  floats  away 

In  France,  a  fading  cloud — 
But  the  war  at  Jenkins'  Corners  is 

Attracting  quite  a  crowd! 

Pop  Snider  had  a  navvy  there, 

And  old  Zeke  Wade  a  son, 
And  since  the  boys  are  home  again, 

They've  waded  in  like  fun. 

The  checker-board  is  moved  away, 

A  gas-mask  takes  its  place; 
The  floor  is  neatly  sanded,  so 

The  campaign  they  may  trace. 

Pop  Snider  knows  what   he'd  have  done, 

And  Zekiel  has  his  say 
On  where  they  made  the  great  mistake 

And  nearly  lost  the  day. 


198 


They  fight  it  o'er  from  A  to  Z, 
And  slay  full  many  a  Hun — 

For  out  at  Jenkins'  Corners  now 
The  war  is  just  begun! 


NOVEMBER  ELEVENTH 

ELIZABETH   HANLY 
IN    POPULAR   EDUCATOR 

A    THOUSAND  whistles  break  the  bonds  of  sleep 
A  x    "\yjth  swift  exultant  summons  wild  and  shrill ; 
Impassioned  tongues  of  flames  toward  heaven  leap 
To  tell  us  peace  has  come.    The  guns  are  still. 

A  thousand  flags  have  blossomed  in  the  air 

Like  poppies  in  a  garden  by  the  sea. 
Beyond  the  eastern  hills  a  golden  flare 

Foretells  the  day  that  broke  on  Calvary. 

Long-darkened  Liberty  uplifts  once  more 
Her  torch  on  Belgium,  Poland  and  Alsace 

And  Flanders — on  each  desecrated  shore, 

Slow  dawns  the  sun ;  and  on  my  mother's  face 

The  look,  I  think,  that  Mary  must  have  worn 

In  Galilee  on  Resurrection  morn. 


199 

OLD  JIM 

NORMAN  SHANNON   HALL 

IN  THE  STARS  AND  STRIPES 
Permission  to  reproduce  in  this  book 

in  that  vague,  vast  "somewhere"  of  The  Line 
They  killed  Old  Jim,  a  proven  friend  of  mine. 
Killed  him  at  night,  while  he  was  on  patrol ; 
All  the  company  found  was  just  a  hole 
A  damned  boche  shell  had  dug  out  where  he'd  gone. 
The  outfit  passed  the  place  just  after  dawn 
And  saw  some  bodies;  but  they  couldn't  tell 
Which  one  was  which.     They  all  were  smashed  to  hell! 
They  put  Jim  on  the  list,  "Reported  Dead"; 
"Missing  in  Action,"  the  home  papers  said. 

I  wasn't  in  The  Line  when  Jim  went  out. 

A  piece  of  shrapnel  had  hit  me  a  clout 

Which  kept  me  pretty  quiet  for  a  while — 

Gray  days  when  it  was  mighty  hard  to  smile. 

And  when  I  learned  Old  Jim  had  topped  the  ridge 

I  fell  to  thinking  what  a  privilege 

It  was  to  know  him.    Jim  was  just  the  kind 

That  stops  to  pet  a  dog  or  help  the  blind. 

The  sort  you  turn  to  when  things  don't  go  right, 

And  then  forget  when  all  the  world  is  bright. 

Jim  had  a  kindly  eye  that  seemed  to  see 

The  best  in  men.     What  could  he  see  in  me? 

I  never  knew ;  but  Jim  was  always  glad 

To  give  me  half  of  everything  he  had. 

That's  why,  you  see,  it  cut  me  mighty  deep 

To  know  Old  Jim  was  Out  There — in  a  heap. 

I've  said  Old  Jim  was  not  identified. 

All  the  outfit  ever  knew  was — he  died! 

And  though  there  is  no  way  to  prove  it's  so 

This  Unknown  Soldier  is  Old  Jim.     I  know! 

The  Congress  Medal  and  the  D.  S.  C., 

Have  been  given  this  Lost  Identity; 

And  knowing  that  they  both  were  earned  by  him, 

I  know  the  Unknown  Soldier  is — Old  Jim! 


200 


THE  UNKNOWN  SOLDIER 
ARMISTICE  DAY  AT  ARLINGTON 

GRANTLAND  RICE 

IN  THE  NEW  YORK  TRIBUNE 

Permission  to  reproduce  in  this  book 

HTHE  wind  to-day  is  full  of  ghosts  with  ghostly  bugles 

blowing, 
Where  shadows  steal  across  the  world,  as  silent  as  the 

dew. 
Where  golden  youth   is  yellow   dust,   by  haunted    rivers 

flowing 
Through  valleys  where  the  crosses  grow,  as  harvest  wheat 

is  growing, 
And  only  dead  men  see  the  line  that  passes  in  review. 


The  gripping  clay  once  more  gives  way  before  the  Mighty 

Mother 
Who  waits  with  everlasting  arms  to  guard  her  sleeping 

sons. 

And  lonely  mates  in  silent  fields  call  out  to  one  another 
The  story   of   an   empty   grave,   where   each   has   lost   a 

brother, 

Who  takes  the  long,  long  trail  at  last  beyond  the  rust- 
ing guns. 

Gently  the  east  wind  brought  him  home  to  meet  the  south 

wind  sighing. 
Softly  the  north  wind  breathes  his  name  that  none  of 

us  may  know. 
For  only  those  who  fell  with  him,  out  in  the  darkness 

lying, 

Can  tell  his  company  or  rank,  and  they  are  un replying, 
As  each  dreams  on  through  summer  dawns  or  winter's 
mantling  snow. 


201 

Nameless — and  yet  how  gallantly  he  faced  the  roaring 

thunder 
Where  names  were  less  than  star-dust  as  the  crashing 

steel  swept  by 
To  take  its  endless  toll  of  those  the  night  squad  spaded 

under, 
Clod   upon  clod,   beneath    the  sod   that  time   alone  may 

sunder, 
Held  where  the  wind-blown   grasses  stir  beneath   an 

alien  sky. 

He'll  miss,  perhaps,  the  poppy  blooms  that  sway  above 

the  clover, 
But  rose-red  wreaths  of  Arlington  bend  low  above  his 

dreams. 

The  reveille  at  dawn  is  done,  the  slogging  hikes  are  over, 
Where  out  the  friendly  lanes  of  home,  a  gay  and  careless 

rover, 

His   wild,   free  spirit*  seeks  the  hills  and  haunts  the 
singing  streams. 

No  more  he  moves  by  Meuse  or  Aisne,  some  shell-swept 

river  wading, 
No  marching   orders   call   him   from  his   rough-hewn 

granite  grave. 
And  when  at  dusk  we  hear  far  off  the  eerie  drum-taps 

fading, 
What  hallowed  spot  holds  more  than  this,  with  spectral 

lines  parading 
Blood  of  our  blood,  dust  of  our  dust,  "the  ashes  of  our 

brave"? 

There  will  be  tears  from  watching  eyes,  where  rain  and 

mist  are  blended, 

There  will  be  heartache  in  the  lines  where  gold-starred 
mothers  wait. 


202 

But  where  the  great  shells  fall  no  more,  what  vision  is 

more  splendid 
Than   peace  along  the  once-scarred   fields,   the  last   red 

battle  ended, 
Peace  that  he  helped  to  bring  again  above  the  twilight 

gate? 

Let  valor's  minstrel  voices  sing  his  fame  for  future  pages, 
But  when   the  starless  darkness  comes  and   the  long 

silence  creeps, 
When  blossom  mists  of  spring  return  or  winter  torrent 

rages, 
Write  this  above  his  nameless  dust,   to  last  beyond  the 

ages, 

"Safe  in  the  Mighty  Mother's  arms  an  Unknown  Sol- 
dier sleeps." 


EPITAPH  FOR  THE  UNKNOWN  SOLDIER 

ANNETTE  KOHN 
IN  THE  WASHINGTON  STAR 

Permission  to  reproduce  in  this  book 

VUTTHIN  this  nation-hallowed  tomb 
^    An  unknown  soldier  lies  asleep, 
Symbolic  comrade  of  all  those 
Who,  on  the  land,  on  sea,  in  air, 
In  that  red  death  across  the  seas, 
Sealed  with  their  blood  the  sacred  truths 
For  which  our  country  ever  stands: 
That  righteousness  is  all  the  law — 
That  justice  is  true  government — 
Man's  liberty  the  gift  of  God. 
In  memory  of  the  faith  they  kept, 
Here  through  the  ages  all  the  land 
As  honor  guard  on  watch  will  stand! 


203 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


Above  the  broken  walls  the  apple  boughs 181 

Absolute  knowledge  I  have  none 86 

Across  the  sands  by  Mary's  well 47 

Against  the  shabby  house  I  pass  each  day. Ill 

A  little  grimy-fingered  girl 43 

Archduke  Francis  Ferdinand,  Austrian  heir-apparent 137 

A  thousand  whistles  break  the  bonds  of  sleep 198 

Athwart  that  land  of  bloss'ming  vine 65 

Black  with  the  blackness  of  hell  and  despair 196 

Bosun's  whistle  piping,  "Starboard  watch  is  on" ; 18 

Boy  in  khaki,  boy  in  blue 82 

By  all  the  glories  of  the  day, 13 

By  blazing  homes,  through  forests  torn 70 

Click,  click !  how  the  needles  go 128 

Come !     Says  the  drum 67 

Come  shake  hands,  my  little  peach  blossom 76 

Dear  little  flag  in  the  window  there 154 

Down  in  the  street,  with  a  lilting  swing 108 

Down   toward   the   deep-blue  water,  marching  to    throb   of 

drum 112 

"Do  your  bit  !'*    How  cheap  and  trite 152 

'E's  a  sportsman  is  our  Padre 36 

Far  and  near,  high  and  clear 106 

Flag  of  our  Faith :  lead  on — 40 

Float  thou  majestically,  proudly,  triumphantly 153 

Franceline  rose  in  the  dawning  gray. .  . .» 139 

God,  the   Master   Pilot 68 

Gone  is  the  spire  that  slept  for  centuries 92 

Hail   and   farewell 126 

Hail,  banner  of  our  holy  faith 45 

Hear  the  guns,  hear  the  guns ! 134 


204 


INDEX — Continued 


He  profits  most  who  serves  us  best ! 179 

Here  in  the  long  white  ward  I  stand 14 

Here's  to  the  Blue  of  the  wind-swept  North 41 

He  was  a  French  Boy  Scout — a  little  lad 83 

He  woke:  the  clank  and  racket  of  the  train 121 

His   regiment  came  home   today, 192 

Ho !  Heimdal  sounds  the  Gjallar-horn : 21 

I  can  count  my  francs  an'  santeems 186 

I  enlisted  in  the  infantry  last  summer ; 141 

If  I  should  die,  think  only  this  of  me : 102 

I  have  a  conversation  book;  I  brought  it  out  from  home 19 

I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 99 

I  hear  the  throbbing  music  down  the  lanes  of  Afric  rain:. .  .     42 

I  knit,  I  knit,  I  pray,  I  pray 185 

I  never  would  'ave  done  it  if  I'd  known  what  it  would  be. .    187 

In  Flanders'  fields  the  poppies  blow 101 

In  Flanders  fields,  where  poppies  blow 195 

In  this  last  hour,  before  the  bugles  blare 120 

I  saw  the  spires  of  Oxford 114 

I  sit  down  to  write  a  poem  of  our  fighting  men's  renown 169 

I  stand  on  a  peak  at  Verdun — a  scarred,  torn  peak  of  hope 

and  death 167 

It  is  long  since  knighthood  was  in  flower 85 

It  is  portentous,  and  a  thing  of  state 144 

I  tried  to  be  a  doughboy,  but  they  said  my  feet  were  flat. . . .    143 

It's  a  high-f  alutin'  title  they  have  handed  us ; 44 

It's  Spring  at  home ;  I  know  the  signs — 123 

It  was  high  midsummer  and  the  sun  was  shining  strong.  .      34 

It  was  only  a  little  river ;  almost  a  brook ; 159 

It  was  thick  with  Prussian  troopers,  it  was  foul  with  Ger- 
man guns   29 

I've  heard  a  half  a  dozen  times 113 

I  was  an  exile  from  my  own  country 93 

I  wonder  what  the  trees  will  say 118 

Just  for   a   "scrap  of  paper," 24 

Leave  me  alone  here,  proudly,  with  my  dead 132 

Left!    Left!    Had  a  good  girl  when  I  Left!    Left 71 


INDEX — Continued 
Let  us  praise  God  for  the  Dead:  the  Dead  who  died  in  our 


cause 


205 


119 


'Mid  blinding  rain  this  inky  night 74 

Mike  Dillon  was  a  doughboy 61 

My  heart   is  numb  with  sorrow ; 51 

My  house  that  I  so  soon  shall  own 110 

My  name  is  Danny  Bloomer  and  my  age  is  eighty-three. ...  75 

My  son,  at  last  the  fateful  day  has  come 87 

Never  a  Serbian  flower  shall  bloom 50 

No  beauty  could  escape  his  loving  eyes, 14 

No  bugle  is  blown,  no  roll  of  drums 86 

No  Man's  Land  is  an  eerie  sight 16 

Not  with  vain  tears,  when  we're  beyond  the  sun 102 

Now,  Mr.  Wall  of  Wall  St.,  he  built  himself  a  yacht 89 

O  guns,  fall  silent  till  the  dead  men  hear 109 

Oh,  Carranza  sent  a  cable-  (on  the  kaiser's  birthday)  gram.  176 

Oh,  Land  of  Ours,  hear  the  song  we  make  for  you — 161 

Oh,  the  General  with  his  epaulets,  leadin'  a  parade; 37 

Oh  ye  whose  hearts  are  resonant,  and  ring  to  War's  romance  146 

One. star  for  all  she  had 116 

On  law  and  love  and  mercy 178 

On   the   battlefields   of   Flanders   men    have   blessed   you    in 

their  pain    69 

Orchard   land  !     Orchard,  land ! 189 

Our  little  hour — how  swift  it  flies — 103 

Out  here  the  dogs  of  war  run  loose 184 

Out  in  that  vague  vast  "somewhere"  of  The  Line IS 9 

Out  of  the  night  it  leaped  the  seas 191 

Outside  the  ancient  city's  gate 48 

Over  thousands  of  miles 53 


Pardon !  he  has  no  Engleesh,  heem 73 

Past  the  marching  men,  where  the  great  road  runs 162 

Perched  upon  an  office  stool,  neatly  adding  figures 94 

Poppies  in  the  wheat  fields  on  the  pleasant  hills  of  France.  .  25 


206 

INDEX — Continued 

Ribbons  of  white  in  the  flag  of  our  land 105 

Saint  Genevieve,  whose  sleepless  watch 20 

Say,  pa !     What  is  a  service  flag ?. 158 

She  stands  alone  beside  the  gate 157 

She  wasn't  much  to  brag  about,  she  wasn't  much  to  see.  ...  30 

Some  day  the  fields  of  Flanders  shall  bloom  in  peace  again.  129 

Somewhere  is  music  from  the  linnets'  bills 104 

Song  of  the  west  wind  whispering — listen 163 

Son  o'  oP  Miz  McAuliffe,  the  widder  o'  Box-Car  Jack 155 

Standin'  up  here  on  the  fire-step 80 

Still  breaks  the  Holy  morn,  to  soothe  the  care 117 

Straight  thinking,    Straight  talking 57 

Suddenly  one  day  the  last  ill  shall  fall  away 151 

Summer  comes  and  summer  goes 72 

Thank  God,  our  liberating  lance 46 

The  band  is  on  the  quarter-deck,  the  starry  flag  unfurled;. .  166 

The  Colonel  has  a  job  to  do 32 

The  dull  gray  paint  of  war.  . 183 

The  evening  star  a  child  espied 81 

The  herdman  wandering  by  the  lonely   rills, 27 

The  Kid  has  gone  to  the  Colors 23 

The  Kings  are  dying!     In  blood  and  flame 145 

The  little  home  paper  comes  to  me t  15 

The  magpies  in  Picardy 130 

The  mist  hangs  low  and  quiet  on  a  ragged  line  of  hills 182 

The  nightingales  of  Flanders 50 

The  old  flag  is  a-doin'  her  very  level  best 151 

The    Old    Gang   on    the    Corner!      What    an    arrant   tribe 

they  were 64 

The  outfield  is  a-creepin'  in  to  catch  the  kaiser's  pop 177 

The  rivers  of  France  are  ten  score  and  twain 79 

The  sick  man  said:  "I  pray  I  shall  not  die 133 

The  soldier  boys  are  marching,  are  marching  past  my  door;  78 
The  star  upon  their  service  flag  has  changed  to  gleaming 

gold: 

The  sunny  streets  of  Oxford 115 

The  war  is  over,  over  there 197 

The  wind  today  is  full  of  ghosts  with  ghostly  bugles  blow- 
ing       200 


207 


INDEX — Continued 


There  are  some  that  go  for  love  of  a  fight 96 

There  is  a  hill  in  England 60 

There's  a  military  band  that  plays,  on  Sunday  afternoons..  63 
There's  a  rumble  an'  a  jumble  an'  a  humpin'  an'  a  thud,.  .  26 

There  used  to  be  a  boy  next  door 172 

There  will  be  dreams  again !  The  grass  will  spread 171 

They  dug  no  grave  for  our  soldier  lad,  who  fought  and  who 

died  out  there: 136 

They  knew  they  were  righting  our  war.  As  the  months  grew 

to  years  52 

They 'shall  not  pass,  While  Britain's  sons  draw  breath 125 

They  shall  return  when  the  wars  are  over 179 

They've  put  us  through  our  paces  ; 69 

This  is  the  song  of  the  Plane— 190 

Thou  art  no  longer  here 90 

Through  the  dark  night  and  the  fury  of  battle 84 

'Tis  a  green  isle  set  in  a  silver  water 180 

Trotting  the  roan  horse 170 

Twenty  years  of  the  army,  of  drawing  a  sergeant's  pay.  ...  38 

Unfurl  the  flag  of  Freedom 98 

Up  among  the  chimneys  tall 49 


Was  there  ever  a  game  we  did  not  share 91 

We  had  forgotten  You,  or  very  nearly — 55 

We  never  were  made  to  be  seen  on  parade 66 

We  often  sit  upon  the  porch  on  sultry  August  nights 59 

West  to  the  hills,  the  long,  long  trail  that  strikes 123 

We  whom  the  draft  rejected 160 

What  are  we  fighting  for,  men  of  my  race 165 

When  I  return,  let  us  be  very  still 33 

When  the  shells  are  bursting  round 174 

Who  was  it,  picked  from  civil  life 127 

Why  do  we  love  our  flag?    Ask  why  flowers  love  the  sun- 
shine     173 

Within   this   nation-hallowed   tomb 202 

Write  us  your  verse,  oh,  so-ldier,  tell  us  the  grim,  red  tale.  193 


208 


I  NDEX — Co  ntinued 


Yes,  back  at  home  I  used  to  drive  a  tram ; 97 

You're  a  funny  fellow,  poilu,  in  your  dinky  little  cap 95 

You  see  that  young  kid  lying  there 124 

"You've  heard  a  good  deal  of  the  telephone  wires" 57 


Readings  and  Monologi 
a  la  Mode 


By  WALTER   BEN  HARE 

THIRTY-TWO  platform 
selections  in  prose  and 
verse,  ranging  from  humor  to 
pathos,  and  affording  an  ex- 
cellent repertoire  for  the  ver- 
satile entertainer. 

CONTENTS. — Amateur  Gum 
Chewer ;  American  Eagle ;  Am 
I  Your  Vife?  At  the  Soda 
Fountain;  Betty  at  the  Base- 
ball Game;  Billy  Keeps  a  Secret;  Black  Blue- 
Grass  Widow ;  Bridget's  Disappointments ; 
Brudder  Rastus'  Sermon  on  the  World  War; 
Cullud  Lady  at  the  Phone ;  Free  Years  Old ; 
Glory  Car ;  Hallowe'en  Witch ;  High  School 
Tact ;  How  to  Get  Married ;  Humoresque ; 
Kid's  Complaint ;  Lodge  Goat ;  Men  Who 
Died ;  Minnie  at  the  Skating  Rink ;  Mrs.  Santa 
Claus;  Newlyweds;  Practisin' ;  Sin  of  Steve 
Audaine ;  S-m-i-1-e  ;  Sonny  Meets  the  Smiths ; 
Traumerei ;  Turkey  in  the  Straw ;  When  I'm 
All  Dressed  Up;  Willie,  the  Angelic  Child. 

Beautiful  cloth    binding.   lettering  and 

design  in  two   colors,  attractive  type. 

Price.  $1.25 

T.  S.  Denison  &  Company,  Publishers 

623  S.  Wabash  Ave.  CHICAGO 


Some  Vaudeville  Monologues 

By  HARRY  L.  NEWTON 

RIGHT  up  to  the  minute 
and  covers  a  wide  range 
of    characters.     Thirteen    for 
men  and  five  for  women. 

CONTENTS.  —  "People  I  Have 
Met" — Cholly  has  a  perfect  batting 
average  in  the  laugh  league.  "Well, 
I  Swan  1" — Reuben's  impressions  of 
a  big  city.  "Her  Busted  Ro- 
mances"— a  muchly  jilted  maiden 
of  uncertain  age.  "Music  a  la 
Carte" — Bobby  explains  the  situ- 
ation without  orchestral  aid.  "Abie  Cohen's  Wedding 
Day"— a  ready  conversationalist  zt'hcn  his  hands  are 
free.  "Sorrows  of  Sadie" — a  chorus  girl  confides  to 
a  sympathetic  companion.  "Tipperary  Tips" — Barney 
prescribes  a  laugh  tonic.  "Kissing  as  an  Art" — effi- 
ciency is  his  middle  name.  "Panhandle  Pete" — he 
hands  out  a  piece' of  free  advice.  "Tillie  Olson's  Ro- 
mance"— a  Swedish  queen  of  the  kitchen.  "As  Tony 
Tells  It" — he  has  an  imported  dialect — try  it  on  your 
vocabulary.  "Suffragette  Susie" — ivho  might  be  will- 
ing to  change  her  name  and  pay  the  parson  as  well. 
"A  Sad  Lover" — elucidations  of  a  colored  Romeo. 
"Chatter" — Nat  has  a  jitney  income,  a  limousine  appe- 
tite and  a  six  cylinder  conversation.  "My  Father 
Says" — Elisabeth  does  a  bit  of  advertising.  "I'm  a 
Tellin'  You" — a  small  town  guy  distributes  some  vil- 
lage information.  "The  Precinct  Politician" — as  a 
political  speech  maker  he  is  a  good  plumber.  "Yon 
Yonson,  Yanitor" — he  turns  on  the  steam:  Unique 
illustrations  of  each  character. 

Beautiful    oloth     binding,     lettering     and 

design    in    two    colors,     attractive    type. 

Price,  SI. 25 

T.  S.  Denison  &  Company,  Publishers 

623  S.  Wabash  Ave.  CHICAGO 


Let's  Pretend 

A  Book  of  Children's  Plays 

By  LINDSEY  BARBEE 


—  let's  pretend!" 
has  been  the  slogan  of 
all  childhood.  A  few  gay 
feathers  have  transformed  an 
everyday  lad  into  a  savage 
warrior  ;  a  sweeping  train  has 
given  a  simple  gingham  frock 
the  dignity  of  a  court  robe  ; 
the  power  of  make-believe  has 
changed  a  bare  attic  into  a 
gloomy  forest  or  perhaps  into  a  royal  palace. 
These  six  plays  will  appeal  to  the  imagination, 
to  the  fun-loving  nature  and  to  the  best  ideals 
of  all  children. 

CONTENTS.  —  The  Little  Pink  Lady  (6 
Girls);  The  Ever-Ever  Land  (16  Boys,  17 
Girls);  When  the  Toys  Awake  (15  Boys,  5 
Girls)  ;  The  Forest  of  Every  Day  (5  Boys, 
7  Girls)  ;  A  Christmas  Tree  Joke  (7  Boys,  7 
Girls)  ;  "If  Don't-Believe  Is  Changed  Into 
Believe"  (21  Boys,  15  Girls).  Full  descrip- 
tions for  producing;  easy  to  costume  and 
"put  on."  Clever  illustrations  showing  the  ap- 
pearance of  each  character.  The  most  charm- 
ing children's  plays  ever  written. 

Beautiful  cloth  binding,  lettering    and 

design    in   two  colors,  attractive  type. 

Price,  $1.25 

T.  S.  Den  i  son  &  Company,  Publishers 

623  S.  Wabash  Ave.  CHICAGO 


Jolly  Monologues 

By  MARY  MONCURE  PARKER 


ANOTHER  superb  group 
of  readings  by  the  author 
of  "Merry  Monologues."  The 
twenty-eight  original  selec- 
tions in  prose  and  verse  will 
prove  gems  for  any  platform 
artist.  Many  moods  and  shades 
of  sentiment  are  represented, 
but  the  majority  are  humor- 
ous. The  original  work  of 
this  author  is  in  increasing  demand. 

CONTENTS. — At  the  Bridge  Party ;  A  Free 
Lunch ;  You  Have  the  Same  Old  Smile ;  Signs 
'of  Spring;  Mr.  Daniel  and  the  Lions;  At  the 
Telephone ;  You's  Mah  Lil'  Coal  Black  Baby ; 
The  Ghost  of  Annie  Flanigan ;  The  Club 
Luncheon;  The  New  Baby;  The  Kisses  of 
Life;  What  George  Thinks  of  the  Movies; 
Isn't  Art  Absorbing ;  Her  Valentine ;  Maggie 
McCarty  Talks  About  Receptions ;  Hiram  and 
the  Bolshevists ;  Jimmy's  Prayer ;  What  Mary 
Thinks  of  Boys;  From  the  Street  Car  Con- 
ductor's Point  of  View;  The  Eater;  The 
Peach  Blossom  Princess ;  One  Minute  to  Eat ; 
A  Chop  Suey  Love  Tale ;  Converting  John 
the  "Blaptist";  To  Him  That  Overcometh ; 
When  We  Went  In;  Who  Says  Woman's 
Place  Is  at  Home?  Red  Charley— One  Credit. 

Beautiful    cloth    binding,     lettering     and 

design     in    two    colors,    attractive     type. 

Price,  SI. 25 

T.  S.  Denison  &  Company,  Publishers 

623  S.  Wabash  Ave.  CHICAGO 


Merry  Monologues 

By  MARY  MONCURB  PARKER 

^~T~AHESE  selections  are  wholly 
original  and  sufficiently  var- 
ied in  character  and  senti- 
ment to  enable  the  reader  to  make 
up  a  well-rounded  program  in 
which  high  comedy  mingles  with 
farce  and  pathos  in  a  manner  suit- 
able for  all  occasions.  Nineteen 
monologues  and  nine  short  poems 
which  are  especially  adapted  to 
that  particular  form  of  enter- 
tainment called  the  pianologue, 

viz.,    reading    to    music. 

Some  of  the  selections  are  new  but  most  of  them 

are  the  pick  from  the  author's  wide  repertoire,  which 

she  has  used  throughout  this  country  and  in  England. 

They  bear  the  stamp  of  enthusiastic  public  approval 

and  are  now  first  offered  to  the  public. 

Contents:  On  the  Street  Car;  The  Renaissance 
of  the  Kiss;  Husbands  Is  Husbands;  Oh,  Friend  of 
Mine;  George's  First  Sweetheart;  Bobby  and  the 
New  Baby;  Lucile  Gets  Ready  for  a  Dance; 
Mandy's  Man  and  Safety  First;  Maggie  McCarthy 
Goes  on  a  Diet;  Mrs.  Climber  Doesn't  Like  Notori- 
ety; Lucindy  Jones  Expects  a  Legacy;  Grown  Folks 
Is  so  Awful  Queer;  At  the  Movies;  The  Gingie  Boy; 
Ode  to  a  Manikin;  Isaacstein's  Busy  Day;  Like  Pil- 
grims to  the  Appointed  Place;  Mrs.  Bargain 
Counter  Meets  a  Friend;  Mother  Mine;  Maggie 
McCarthy  Has  Her  Fortune  Told;  In  Vaudeville; 
Uncle  Jim  and  the  Liniment;  The  Funny  Story;  In 
the  Milliner  Shop;  Mrs.  Trubble's  Troubles; 
George's  Cousin  Willie;  When  Lucindy  Goes  to 
Town;  A  Question. 

Beautiful  cloth  binding,  lettering:  and 
design  in  two  colors,  clear,  attractive 
type.  Price,  $1.25 

T.  S.  Denison  &  Company,  Publishers 

623  S.  Wabash  Ave.  CHICAGO 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


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REC'D  LD 


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MM  9.  7 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


